


Twice Is Enough

by Amethystina



Series: Do It Right [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brainwashing, Bucky go through a lot in this, But it's not terribly graphic, Canon-Typical Violence, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hence T instead of M, Hurt/Comfort, Involuntary Medical Procedures, M/M, Memory Loss, PTSD, The usual Winter Soldier tags, There's a sex scene in this but it's pretty vague, Tony is there during the war instead of Howard, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23697547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethystina/pseuds/Amethystina
Summary: When Bucky meets Tony Stark, he knows his life will never be the same again. Tony isbrilliantand it's impossible not to fall in love with him. Doing so is dangerous, however, what with the war and society not accepting love between two men. Bucky is willing to risk that, however, knowing all too well just how precious love is — how little time he and Tony might actually have. Bucky never wants to let go of Tony.But then he falls and, in the hands of HYDRA, is brainwashed and twisted beyond recognition. Instead, he becomes a weapon that exists only to follow orders and execute missions. He remembers nothing of Tony and his previous life.Until one day, seventy years into the future, a familiar man on a bridge reminds him.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Series: Do It Right [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706593
Comments: 99
Kudos: 310





	1. Star

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So. Strange things happen. Here I am, with Bucky's POV of a fic I wrote four years ago (almost to the day). I just asked myself one day what I wanted to write and, apparently, this was it. So yeah. Surprise?
> 
> While the fics in this series ARE dealing with the same events, it might be better to read Tony's POV first. His includes more about the surrounding events and paints a better overall narrative, while this one is very Bucky-centric, i.e. some details will be missing. But I suppose it might work either way. You do you, darling.
> 
> That said, I hope you'll like it. And, as always, the art is made by me.

* * *

The first time Bucky saw Anthony Stark, the man's brilliance left him breathless. It wasn't just the fact that Mr. Stark stood on a stage, at the center of everyone's attention, lit by bright, dazzling lights. No, it was the way he smiled — the way he moved, so effortless and confident, each gesture as smooth as poetry. His beauty was spellbinding and Bucky knew he wasn't the only one at the Expo who found himself unable to look away.

Anthony Stark was the kind of man who women wanted to be with and men wanted to be like. He was rich, handsome, and influential, as untouchable and radiant as a star.

Bucky knew it was foolish to entertain the thought, even for a second, but the clench of want was impossible to deny. He had ladies to entertain — and Steve to look after — but, as long as Mr. Stark stood on that stage, Bucky allowed himself to dream. For a couple of precious, secret minutes he gave himself permission to wholeheartedly want something he knew he could never have.

This, he thought to himself, was the future. This man — this bright, untouchable man — was going to change the world.

The first time Bucky _met_ Anthony Stark, he was much better prepared — though no less awestruck.

Steve smiled as he led their mismatched team of liberated soldiers deeper into the bustling facility, explaining that Mr. Stark was going to outfit them with weapons and uniforms. Dum Dum seemed delighted at the prospect of being given any kind of weapon designed by the infamous Mr. Stark, while Bucky tried to curb a delight of a different — much less socially accepted — kind.

He wholeheartedly welcomed the distraction, however, since it momentarily quieted the other thoughts churning inside his head.

There were still several dark corners in Bucky's mind — places where the nightmares and memories from his imprisonment hid — so he did his best to cling to the good things. Like the way Steve had smiled when he'd explained that Bucky had been reassigned to his specialized team, alongside several of the soldiers he had been imprisoned with. They would not be serving on the frontlines, but engage in covert missions targeting HYDRA specifically.

The part of Bucky that wanted revenge had been thrilled at the news, but there was a clench of dread as well; a gnawing in his gut, insistent and impossible to ignore, that made him fear what was to come. There were times when his hands shook just from _thinking_ about the room where he had been strapped down and experimented on. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the needles piercing his skin — the prick and cold sensation of _something_ spreading through his veins — and was barely able to hold back the bile rising at the back of his throat.

There was something inside him now, Bucky knew that — something foreign left there by the HYDRA scientists — but he wasn't brave enough to ask the medics to examine him. He didn't want to know, choosing instead to put it out of his mind as best as he could.

He hadn't told Steve. Not about the darkness lurking just out of the corner of his eye or the gnawing inside of him. Bucky knew it couldn't be anything good, but he didn't want Steve to worry. They had more important things to focus on, like the on-going war and the battle against HYDRA.

Bucky reminded himself of that as he stepped inside Mr. Stark's workshop together with Steve and the others. They were there for purely professional reasons and whatever admiration Bucky felt for the man, he would do best to hide.

That was easier said than done, however.

The workshop was marvelous — filled with humming machines, blueprints, and futuristic gadgets — but the man himself was even more breathtaking. Mr. Stark drew Bucky's eyes without even trying. He moved with a smooth grace, the cut of his vest emphasizing the tantalizing curve of his back.

No matter how hard he tried, Bucky couldn't help that his gaze wandered, wishing desperately that he could have followed the same trail with his fingertips.

He looked up to find dark, inscrutable eyes watching him. Bucky's heart jumped from alarm, his spine stiffening. He was usually extremely careful to keep his unconventional tastes hidden from view, but Mr. Stark made him careless — _desperate_ — in a way Bucky had never experienced before.

To his surprise — and relief — Mr. Stark's reaction was not disgust or anger, but to smile. It was a pleased, confident smile that, partnered with a wink, left Bucky's heart racing. The implications made him return the smile, feeling the tension ease while his desire only seemed to grow.

"Hey, Buck, come over here," Steve said, waving him over. Bucky obeyed, eager to be introduced, even if he knew perfectly well who he was facing. "This is Anthony Stark. He—"

"Dumped your sorry ass out of a fucking airplane, yeah — you told me," Bucky interrupted, rude as that might be. Mr. Stark didn't seem to mind, however, his smile mischievous when Bucky held out his hand in greeting.

Mr. Stark's gaze was almost frighteningly intelligent and intense enough to send a jolt down Bucky's spine.

"I _did_ give him a parachute first," Mr. Stark argued. His hand slipped into Bucky's, surprisingly rough and calloused for someone rich enough to afford not to work. Bucky decided he liked that. "And it was Peggy's idea," Mr. Stark clarified, "not mine."

Steve cleared his throat, no doubt embarrassed by the mention of the gal he was sweet on.

"Tony will help you with your equipment."

"So you pilot planes, build almost flying cars, and outfit soldiers?" Bucky drawled, even if he knew the answer already. He kept holding Mr. Stark's hand, pleased to find that he was allowed to.

The attraction was definitely mutual.

"What can I say? I have many talents," Mr. Stark replied. He slowly drew his hand back, but looked reluctant to have to do so. "I'm currently designing Steve's new uniform and will be supplying you boys with whatever weapons you desire, customized to suit your every need."

Bucky smiled, unable to hold back the warmth in his voice. "That's very kind of you, Mr. Stark."

They were being far too obvious, Bucky knew that. Steve wasn't stupid enough not to catch on — he had known about Bucky's preferences since he was sixteen — but, at the same time, he couldn't care less.

In the face of someone was breathtaking and brilliant as Mr. Stark, Bucky was helpless not to respond.

"Please," Mr. Stark said, "call me Tony." His voice sent a shiver down Bucky's spine, so smooth and full of promises. "I'm going to take very good care of you."

"I'm sure you will, Tony." Bucky wished he had still been holding Tony's hand, but the look in his eyes was more than enough. There was so much hunger there that Bucky felt his gut tighten.

Perhaps this particular star wasn't out of his reach after all.

Bucky had always been fond of dancing. He was good at confidently leading girls on the dance floor, dipping and twirling them until their eyes sparkled with laughter. As little interest as he had in women, he found them undeniably beautiful in those moments, their smiles bright and cheeks rosy from his attention.

What he and Tony shared was something else entirely. To begin with, it wasn't an actual dance — such things were not allowed between two men — but it often felt like one.

During the weeks that followed, they circled each other relentlessly; gave ground and took it just as boldly, teased with hooded looks and soothed with softly spoken words. Tony matched Bucky step for step, smooth and graceful, but still remained just out reach. The air between them was thick with unspoken desires, the intensity only amplifying — sizzling like electricity — until everything became a dizzying, breathtaking blur of stolen conversations and longing gazes.

They knew better than to act on their attraction, lest they wanted to risk getting caught, but it didn't take long before Bucky's patience made him more and more reckless. He longed to feel Tony's heart beat next to his, to be able to kiss and touch, and finally erase that last remaining distance between them.

So, when the moment finally came — when there was no transport waiting to take him away on a mission the next morning — he seized the opportunity.

Tony had joined them at the bar that night. He usually didn't, but the subtle longing in his eyes let Bucky know he was the reason — Tony was there for him. That thought was more intoxicating than the alcohol Bucky was drinking and he couldn't help that his gaze inevitably strayed to Tony as the minutes ticked by.

The bar was crowded, full to the brim with his fellow soldiers, but he still dared to gravitate closer to Tony. The laughter and music was all background noise to Bucky, his attention focused solely on the man next to him. He declined to dance when asked, much too caught up in the one he and Tony had been engaged in for several weeks.

It was all coming to a head tonight — Bucky could feel it.

Tony was beautiful, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, his vest hugging every curve, and tie temptingly loosened at the base of his throat. Even his hair was carefully styled but for one rebellious curl that had fallen down, tickling his forehead. Bucky wanted desperately to reach out and brush it aside, to run his fingers through Tony's hair and pull him in for a kiss.

When their gazes met, through the dim light and curling smoke from cigarettes, Tony's eyes were practically glowing with anticipation. Bucky felt it, too, like a low, steady hum inside his chest, pushing him closer and closer to Tony.

Eventually, he couldn't hold out any longer, leaning closer to whisper in Tony's ear.

"I have a two-day leave."

Tony looked up, their faces inches apart, and nodded. There was no hesitation or flicker of caution in his eyes — just pure, raw need.

Bucky rose to leave first and couldn't resist the temptation of trailing a hand along Tony's shoulder as he passed. He could feel Tony shiver under his touch and barely managed to curb his smile.

"Steve, I'm heading back early," Bucky called out over the shouts and laughter.

Steve looked up from where he was sitting with Gabe and Jacques and nodded in reply. The look on Steve's face was almost comically bland, even if he had to know why Bucky was leaving. They hadn't spoken about Bucky's interests in Tony yet, but the way Steve's gaze briefly slid over to Tony said he wasn't fooled.

The air outside the pub was crisp and clear, and Bucky took a greedy breath, listening to the distant voices still audible through the closed door behind him. It would have been a beautiful night if not for the hushed quiet that lay over the war-torn city, windows dark and shadows looming.

Bucky headed for a nearby alley, waiting for Tony to join him.

A couple of minutes ticked by before Bucky hear the door to the pub open, letting out a burst of laughter and several chords of music, before falling shut again. He took another deep breath, reveling in the anticipation he felt building inside of him.

The moment Tony came within view, Bucky was reaching for him. He pulled Tony into the alley, the darkness swallowing them, and guided Tony to the wall. Bucky could finally allow his fingers to bury in Tony's soft, dark hair, pushing close enough that he could feel Tony's breath against his lips.

The kiss that followed was hungry, born from the desperation they both felt. Tony's hands found Bucky's shirt, pulling him in, luring him closer with those sweet-tasting lips and that irresistible warmth. Bucky shivered from the intensity, sparks dancing under his skin and breath hitching.

He had never tasted anything like it.

Tony arched his back, eager and demanding, and Bucky felt his longing flare even brighter. The kisses grew bolder — frantic — and Bucky couldn't breathe for the urgency in the air. He lost himself to the wonderful heat that was curling at the pit of his stomach and spreading through his veins. A soft, aching moan slipped from Tony's lips, the sound making Bucky's head spin.

When Bucky felt Tony's hand wander lower, deftly stroking him through his pants, he couldn't hold back a moan of his own. He rolled his hips, helplessly seeking more.

" _Jesus_ , Tony," he gasped, feeling almost embarrassingly lightheaded — one touch shouldn't make him this desperate. A second later, his sense caught up and he reluctantly reached down to grab Tony's wrist. "No, wait. Wait, Tony."

Tony stiffened, tense and awkward in Bucky's arms. Fear, Bucky realized — Tony must be afraid he had changed his mind.

Bucky leaned his head against Tony's, trying to catch his breath.

"Not here, darling," he said soothingly, words hushed in the narrow space between them. "Too dangerous."

Anyone might walk by and find them and Bucky couldn't risk that — he couldn't risk Tony getting caught doing unspeakable things with another man.

After a short, breathless moment, Tony nodded.

"My place," he offered, looking up at Bucky with those big, dark eyes of his.

Bucky wasn't sure if he had ever seen anyone so beautiful.

"Lead the way," he managed to reply, words hoarse.

Tony pressed a quick kiss to Bucky's lips before he laced their fingers together and led them out from the alley. Bucky followed, heart thundering in his chest and longing quickening his steps. The night was quiet and dark around them, the silence only making Bucky's blood sing louder.

They had to be careful, both of them knew that, and Tony wisely chose the narrower streets as he led them towards his apartment. Bucky had never been before, but he could imagine that it was much better than anything Bucky could have offered back at the military barracks.

Once they finally arrived at Tony's apartment, Bucky barely noticed the décor. He was too focused on pulling Tony in for another kiss, then making sure they shed their clothes on the way to the bed. Neither of them wanted to wait any longer.

Tony's sheets were softer than any Bucky had ever felt before, but they still couldn't compare to Tony's skin. He let his hands wander, drawing out breathless moans and pleased sighs, then followed the same path with his lips. Tony was so beautiful against the white sheets, bathed in moonlight. Each touch of Tony's hands on Bucky's skin — each little shiver and gentle caress — made Bucky dizzy with want.

His heart stuttered when he finally entered Tony, all that desperation and longing coiled under his skin. Tony's hands gripped Bucky's shoulders, then the back of his neck, and Bucky carefully rolled his hips. The moan that slipped from Tony's lips was positively sinful — and everything Bucky had ever wanted.

He was lost within seconds.

Each thrust brought a new wave of bliss. Nothing mattered but Tony — the sounds he made, the taste of his lips, and the warmth of his skin. Bucky couldn't get enough, savoring the moment while still craving more. He wasn't sure if he would ever get enough. They climbed higher, the pleasure building, and Bucky knew they wouldn't last much longer.

The moment Tony came apart below him with a breathless moan, Bucky followed suit.

Tony was so beautiful in the moonlight.

During the months that followed, they couldn't seem to get enough of each other.

Each free moment Bucky was given, he tried to spend with Tony. Those weren't many to begin with, only complicated further by how careful they had to be to avoid detection. They hid away in broom closets or locked the doors to Tony's lab just to get some time together.

Now, more than ever, Bucky was desperate for the times when he was given leave. On those days, Tony would take him to his lavish apartment and they would spend hours wrapped up in each other, tangled in Tony's expensive sheets. Tony's kisses always tasted sweeter when Bucky knew he could get another one right after, without having to hurry or fear discovery.

Bucky knew that Steve did everything he could to give them the occasional day off. He must have noticed how much happier Bucky was after them — that being with Tony chased away those shadows still lingering in his mind. Steve clearly wanted Bucky to have that small sliver of happiness, for however long he was allowed.

Bucky was well aware that each kiss Tony gave him might be their last. He never told Tony about the details of the missions he was sent on, but someone as clever as Tony had to know how dangerous they were — that Bucky might not return one day. Tony provided the team with the weapons, after all, and was the one who had to mend their uniforms when they were injured.

The first time Bucky got shot — a graze on his right shoulder that healed within days — Tony wouldn't let him out of his bed. It didn't matter that the wound was barely even worth mentioning. Tony fussed and spoiled Bucky rotten, but the smile on his face had been tight, near cracking, panic hiding just underneath the concern.

They never spoke about it. To do so would mean admitting that they might lose each other and Bucky knew that neither of them could bear that thought.

Instead they cherished their moments together with a desperation that nearly broke Bucky's heart. The war was raging around them and each blissful moment Bucky got to spend with Tony was precious beyond words. He would do anything within his power to keep them — he would hold on to that frail piece of happiness with everything he got.

He would do anything to be able to stay with Tony.

"Are you ever going to tell me about it?" Steve asked one night as they stood guard over their camp, the rest of the Commandos snoring a couple of feet away. "About him?" Steve clarified.

Bucky snorted. "Why bother? You already know."

"I figured it out," Steve replied, nudging Bucky with his elbow, thankfully mindful of his new strength, "which isn't the same as you telling me."

Steve was right about that, Bucky supposed. He wasn't ready to relent just yet, however.

"And you figured _now_ was a good time?" he asked, amused. One of the others might wake up and hear them talk, not to mention that they were well within enemy territory, where each whisper might expose their position.

"As good as any, yeah." Steve must have shrugged, but it was difficult to tell with the darkness wrapping around them, the light of the moon and stars blocked out by the surrounding trees. They couldn't risk a campfire this far behind enemy lines.

Bucky closed his eyes and let out a soft sigh, enjoying the silence. He had to admit that the hush of the sleeping woods felt surprisingly comforting — as if he could whisper his darkest secrets and for once not fear punishment.

"He's amazing," he said eventually, not surprised to hear the reverence in his own voice. Tony still took Bucky's breath away with his easy smile and big heart.

"He makes you happy."

It wasn't a question, but Bucky answered all the same.

"Yes."

"You love him."

Again, it wasn't a question and Bucky let out a low laugh.

"Yeah," he replied, his stomach fluttering with joy.

God, how he loved Tony.

"Tell me about him," Steve requested again, smile evident in his voice.

Bucky did.

Bucky won a ring in a card game. It wasn't a special ring by any means — just a rounded silver band with simple stars engraved along the middle, the metal scratched and worn — but the moment Bucky pulled it out from his pocket once back at the barracks, he felt a twist of longing in his chest.

It wasn't a wedding band — or at least the soldier he had won it from said it wasn't — but it kind of looked like one. A man's wedding band.

Bucky swallowed, his thumb running along the beautiful little starbursts. What he wouldn't give, to be able to gift it to Tony — to give him physical proof of how much he loved him.

There were two reasons why he couldn't, however. The first was the fact that it was illegal, and the second that he wasn't sure if Tony felt the same. Bucky knew Tony loved him — with every fond smile and secretive kiss, Bucky grew more and more sure — but commitment was something else altogether. Tony might not want more than they had now.

A ring would be permanent — or at least Bucky would want it to be, and he wasn't sure if Tony shared his wants.

He still kept the ring, just in case, wrapped carefully in the softest piece of fabric Bucky could find, tucked in next to the letters from home. It might be wishful thinking, but, perhaps, he would get to give it to Tony one day.

"You could give Steve a run for his money, eating like that." Tony's words made Bucky stiffen. They were having breakfast in Tony's sinfully soft bed, a tray of food resting in their laps. Tony looked at him with humor in his eyes, the morning sunlight dancing over his tousled hair and bare shoulder. "You sure you're not secretly a super soldier?"

Bucky swallowed and hastily put down his fork. "Sorry."

Both guilt and shame burned through him. Truth be told, he wasn't sure himself. He still hadn't told anyone about that incessant gnawing inside of him, even if he knew it wasn't normal. He was always hungry, always full with nervous tension, and rarely slept more than four hours each night. By now, however, he had spent so long in silence that he simply didn't know how to speak up.

The words wouldn't come.

"No, no," Tony hastened to say, "don't stop. The food is meant for you. Eat it."

While that might be true, Bucky still felt guilty. He had already eaten more than his fair share — he should have been full.

What was wrong with him?

"Bucky, dearest, eat the food," Tony insisted, his smile indulgent, if a little exasperated. Tony merely shrugged when Bucky gave him a flat look. "What? You want us to throw it away?"

"We could give it to someone else," Bucky said. He had grown up far too poor to be comfortable with the thought of wasting food.

"Yes, we could," Tony said as he shifted closer, his tone telling Bucky he had a better idea, "but that requires getting out of bed."

Bucky couldn't help chuckling, his smile fond.

"You are a bad influence on me, Mr. Stark."

"Am I now?" Tony teased, eyes glowing golden in the morning sunlight.

"Yes," Bucky murmured, tangling his fingers into Tony's hair, "the absolute worst."

He kissed Tony before he had time to reply, silencing any further discussion.

Bucky knew he should tell Steve or Tony about the things happening to him. How bruises healed overnight and alcohol no longer seemed to affect him — not even enough to make him tipsy. How he could eat three helpings and still need more.

He didn't tell them, however, too afraid of what it might mean.

His symptoms were similar to Steve's, Bucky knew that, but that didn't mean they were the same. HYDRA was responsible for Bucky's condition and he wasn't gullible enough to think that anything good could ever come out of an organization like that. He wasn't sure if he _wanted_ to know what they had done to him.

Would Tony still want him, if it turned out to be something sinister? Would Steve be able to forgive him, if he ended up going bad? Would Tony stay with him, if he knew that HYDRA had left something behind in Bucky, all those months ago?

Did Bucky have the right to ask that of him?

In the end, silence was easier.

"What's wrong?"

Bucky was miles away in thought and barely registered Tony's question.

They were lying curled up in Tony's bed, a crackling fire burning merrily in the fireplace, casting a golden glow over the room. Tony's head was resting on Bucky's shoulder, his hair tickling Bucky's cheek, and it still took Bucky several seconds to return to the present.

He had been doing that a lot lately — losing himself in the dark corners of his mind, trying to find answers and purpose. He was worried about more than just the physical changes he had been experiencing and decided he had no reason to lie to Tony.

"The war," he replied truthfully.

A silence settled between them, but it didn't take long for Tony to break it.

"More than usual?" he asked.

Bucky was well aware of how strange his words might seem. He kept staring blankly into the fire, trying to figure out how to explain the doubts and worries curling inside of him.

"I think it might be ending."

"That's good, isn't it?" Tony asked.

After some effort, Bucky was able to tear his gaze away from the flickering flames. He looked at Tony, smiling as he succumbed to the temptation of combing his fingers through Tony's hair. The curls were so soft against his hand.

"Yeah," Bucky agreed. "Yes, it is." He looked away, feeling a clench of doubt. "But I don't know what I'll do afterwards. _Where_ I'll be."

To be honest, Bucky had never really expected to survive the war — not after he had been taken prisoner. It felt like he had been living on borrowed time since then, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Now, however, it really did seem like the war was ending. Both Hitler and HYDRA were weakening and Bucky realized he had to think about the future.

That he _had_ a future.

The only thing he knew for certain was that he wanted Tony to be in it, but he had no idea how to ask for something of that magnitude. Bucky still had the ring, tucked in with his belongings, but that didn't change the fact that any kind of arrangement involving two men was dangerous. Bucky loved Tony far too much to want to put him in that kind of danger.

Tony's reply was so sincere and instinctive — as if any other option was simply unthinkable.

"With me," he said. "You'll always have a place here with me."

Bucky's breath caught, every single one of his doubts and fear being crushed underneath a wave of awe and affection. Tony's certainty gave Bucky a surge of courage.

He sat up, gently grabbing Tony's elbow to stop him from drawing back. Tony looked tense and guarded, no doubt feeling vulnerable after such a heartfelt admission. Bucky cursed the fact that he didn't have the ring with him since this was clearly the moment to give it to Tony, but he had something else that might do until then.

Without wasting time, Bucky reached for the dog tags looped around his neck. He took them off and slipped the chain over Tony's head instead, pleased when the tags came to rest against the center of Tony's chest.

He pulled on the necklace, drawing Tony in for a soft kiss.

"Then I'll make sure to always come back," Bucky promised. If Tony wanted a future with him, by _God_ Bucky was going to do his best to give it to him.

Perhaps he should buy a new ring altogether? One meant for Tony alone, rather than one Bucky had won in a card game. He would have to ask Steve for advice on that.

Tony seemed taken aback, closing his eyes for a second before looking back up at Bucky. His smile was soft but frail, his gaze more emotional than he was probably comfortable with.

"The point of the tags is that _you_ should be wearing them — not me," he said. The attempt at a joke didn't hide how emotional he was, but Bucky chose not to comment on that.

He shrugged instead. "I don't plan to die."

"Few people do."

Tony looked down at the tags, his thumb stroking along one of them — along Bucky's name. Bucky reached down and laced their fingers together, leaning closer to press a tender kiss to Tony's temple.

"I'll come back, Tony — I promise," Bucky whispered against Tony's skin, his own breath trembling from the surge of love and joy he felt. "You only live once, and I'm not ready to leave just yet."

He never wanted to lose the happiness he had found with Tony.

"Good." Tony ducked his head, hiding his face against Bucky's neck. "I don't ever want you to."

"I'll do what I can," Bucky promised. He placed a kiss on top of Tony's head, breathing in the scent of his hair.

He would do anything for a future with Tony.

Bucky tried to be careful as he slipped out of their bed, but Tony was a light enough sleeper to notice. He let out an adorable noise of complaint and Bucky quickly reached out to stroke his bare back, feeling Tony relax under his hand.

"Where?" The word was muffled against Tony's pillow, but still recognizable enough for Bucky to hear it.

He smiled, bending forward to press a kiss against Tony's shoulder blade.

"Austria," Bucky replied. He couldn't give more information about his upcoming mission than that, but knew it would be enough for Tony.

"Mmmh," Tony hummed, "dress warmly."

"I will," Bucky promised, overcome with fondness.

He looked down at Tony, burrowed down amongst the sheets, the chain of Bucky's dog tags glinting around his neck. It wasn't a ring, but seeing it made Bucky feel damned good all the same. Most of their time together had been stolen moments and forbidden kisses, but not this.

This made it real — a blatant statement of how much Tony mattered to him.

A promise that Bucky would always come back to him.

"I love you," Bucky whispered.

How he was allowed to love someone like Tony — bright, beautiful Tony — was still a miracle to him most days.

"I love you too," Tony replied, slurred with sleep but no less sincere.

Bucky pressed one last kiss against Tony's temple before he reluctantly got up and started getting ready for his mission.

With any luck, he would be back in that bed with Tony in less than six days' time.

When the blast from the HYDRA weapon threw him out of the speeding train, Bucky's mind when blank with panic and he fumbled blindly for a handhold.

When he reached for Steve's hand, the wind and snow howling around them, Bucky prayed Steve would be okay without him.

When the handle broke and he began to fall, Bucky was grateful that the last thing he had said to Tony was that he loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want it to be said that I, apparently, can't work on this series without being ill or injured somehow. The first fic was planned in a feverish haze when I had food poisoning, this first chapter of this second fic was written when I had a concussion, and the remaining four chapters have been written the past week, when I'm home and quite possibly suffering from Covid-19 (though a very mild version). Life is wild.
> 
> Anyhow. Here is my [Tumblr](http://amethystinawrites.tumblr.com/) and I'll see you all on Tuesday.


	2. Soldier

* * *

Pain.

He was only aware of pain. Images flashed before his eyes, brief flickers of impressions his mind was unable to comprehend.

Bright white and splashes of red. He was being moved — _carried_ — but he couldn't say where. He didn't know where he was.

He only knew pain.

A room, cramped and oppressive, bright lights shining in his eyes. There was numbness now, more so than pain. He saw faces, haloed by the light and blurry in the dark. The voices were harsh, the words grating in his ears.

Where was he?

He felt cold. He tried to remember how he had gotten there, but couldn't. His thoughts were slipping through his fingers. He heard his name, but couldn't answer.

Who were these people?

Hands held him down when he tried to move. Something wasn't right. His left side felt numb. The sound of whirring made him look down. Something was cutting into his arm. He couldn't feel it, but he saw it.

Panic flared in his chest, bright and painful, a scream building at the back of his throat. He never let it out.

Everything went black.

He didn't know for how long. He was still in the same room when he opened his eyes again. The pain was back and with it came the panic. When he looked down at his hands, one of them was _wrong_. He wasn't sure how or when. He wasn't sure of anything.

Where was Steve?

The people around him moved and he lashed out. Everything was pain and panic and anger. He didn't know who they were. He didn't like where he was.

Something was wrong. _Everything_ was wrong.

He thought he saw a face he recognized — a voice that sent shivers down his spine — but he wasn't sure. It was all a blur, fragmented and disorienting.

What was happening to him?

Everything went black.

He didn't know who he was. He wasn't sure if that mattered. His life consisted only of pain and cold.

He remembered only brief flickers of what might have been his life. A smiling, blond boy. Busy streets. A small kitchen. Men laughing. Big, brown eyes.

None of it made sense. None of it made him feel anything but confusion.

All he knew was pain and cold.

He didn't know where he came from. There were times, during brief moments of clarity, when he wondered if this had always been his life. He couldn't remember.

He looked at the faces around him — the men in coats with clipboards — but felt nothing. As he was ushered from room to room, strapped down, pricked with needles, poked and prodded, he felt nothing.

Except sometimes he did.

Sometimes, he felt a suffocating feeling of _wrongness_. He wasn't sure why. This was all he had ever known. How could it be wrong? And yet, something told him it was.

He lashed out. He fought against it. He punched and he kicked and he screamed.

Even if he didn't know why.

He couldn't remember.

There was so much pain — pain and crackling lighting. Restraints held him down. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve this. He couldn't breathe.

Everything hurt — every fiber of his being. He was being unmade. Everything was a chaotic jumble of pain and fractured impressions.

He could barely remember his own name. Words were constantly shouted at him, or whispered in low, cajoling tones. The hands kept poking and prodding, but he was too weak to fight them now.

He just wanted it to stop. He wanted so desperately to give in — to escape the pain and the words that seemed to seep into his bones, leaving him cold and shaking. He didn't know what was happening, but he knew he couldn't stand it much longer.

He just wanted it to stop.

He was relieved when it finally did.

He opened his eyes.

"You are the Soldier," they told him. "Do you understand?"

He nodded.

The Soldier knew nothing but training, missions, and being in the ice. He didn't know if his life had ever been anything else — he had no reason to speculate. He didn't know if he'd ever had a name — such things were inconsequential to him. He was there only to complete his missions. His only purpose was to obey. Nothing else mattered.

Sometimes, he would be put in the chair. He didn't like the chair. It left him disoriented and hazy for days. Everything surrounding his times in the chair became a blank space in his mind — memories he forgot and couldn't retrieve.

At the same time, they were unimportant. The Soldier had no use for memories. He didn't need to know if he'd ever been someone else — a man with a name, a family, and a different purpose.

He only had his training, his missions, and his time in the ice. That was his reality.

He was the Soldier.

Time was passing while he was in the ice, but the Soldier was never aware of how much. He knew it didn't matter. As long as he could still perform his missions, the passage of time was inconsequential. He only witnessed it in how his handlers aged and how the world abruptly changed in between the times he saw it. Eventually, he got new handlers. The world seemed entirely new as well.

He didn't remember how often he'd been brought out of the ice — some of the times were no doubt lost in the black patches of his mind — nor did he care. There was no point in keeping track. His life was a constant rotation of ice, training, missions, and more ice. It was all dull monotony to him. The targets were always new, but there was rarely anything to differentiate them from one another once the deed was done.

He didn't know how many people he had killed, only that the list kept growing. He felt nothing as he killed them. Sometimes, there was a flare of satisfaction at a job well done, but mostly he felt numb. He had been told his targets were enemies — people who jeopardized their vision of the future — and he eliminated them, as asked. He was creating a better world, they told him.

Sometimes, wondered why he should care. The world he saw wasn't his — he couldn't remember if it ever had been. He felt no connection to the world he was supposedly helping to build.

He was just the Soldier.

He kept going simply because it was what he had always done. He knew nothing but training, missions, and ice. The purpose of the missions didn't matter to him, he just knew he was there to complete them.

The Soldier never failed a mission.

It was during one of his longer missions — one spanning over weeks rather than days — that the Soldier started dreaming of the Man. He didn't know who the Man was, only that his eyes were brown and his hair soft. The Soldier woke with the phantom scent of the Man's skin in his nostrils and his fingers itching to touch.

At first, he was concerned. Had he not been under strict orders to remain under the radar, he would have contacted his handler. The Soldier rarely dreamed and certainly never like this. These dreams had to mean something had gone wrong — that he was malfunctioning — but there was no way for him to report back.

In a matter of days, he began to embrace the dreams. He wasn't sure why they came to him or who the Man was, but they left the Soldier with a feeling of contentment he had never quite experienced before. It was tinged with longing — an emotion the Soldier had a hard time placing at first — and what might be sadness, but the Soldier liked the dreams. He liked what they made him feel. He liked the thought of the Man and his beautiful eyes and warm smile.

By the end of his mission, the Soldier was _intrigued_. He wanted to know more about the Man. Was he a real person? If so, who was he and why was the Soldier dreaming of him? The Soldier couldn't remember ever having seen him before. Or was he a figment of the Soldier's imagination? If he was, then why did it all feel so _real_? What did it all mean?

As curious as he was, the Soldier didn't dare to ask his handler. He knew he wouldn't approve.

He felt surprisingly protective of the Man — of the thought of him. He was the first thing the Soldier could remember that was his alone. He wanted to keep it that way. He wanted to have something that was _his_ , to break the monotony of training, missions, and ice. The Man was warm, comforting, and beautiful. The Soldier desperately wanted to keep his impressions of him — so real they could almost be memories. Nothing had ever been so clear inside his mind as the Man. Nothing had ever been so bright, standing in stark contrast to the gaping holes of black.

His heart sank when he was put in the chair, almost as soon as he returned to base. He would lose his memories of the Man. Maybe not all of them, but the most crucial ones — the days when he had been intrigued rather than alarmed. There was no point in fighting it, however. The memories clearly weren't his to keep, no matter how much the Soldier wished that he could.

In the brief second before the current became live, ripping through his mind, the Soldier closed his eyes and thought of the Man one last time.

Of his warm smile and beautiful, brown eyes.

He had such beautiful eyes.

Somewhere along the way, the language spoken to him changed. Not all the time, but Russian gave way for English.

The Soldier assumed he had been moved to a different country.

The men around him changed, too. There were still the ones in lab coats, but fewer uniforms, especially Russian ones. Most of the time, the men wore suits now and spoke with the smooth tones of politicians and diplomats.

The Soldier assumed his purpose had changed. The world was no longer at war. Or perhaps what had changed was the _way_ war was waged.

He was still needed, he was told. The Soldier would always be needed.

Years passed — the Soldier didn't know how many. It was inconsequential to him. 

A photo was placed in front of him. The way in which it was done alerted the Soldier to the man's importance — information on targets was usually shared in complete files, not piece by piece. Something was different about this one.

"Do you recognize this man?" he was asked.

The Soldier looked down at the photo. The man smiling back at him looked to be in his thirties, brown eyes, brown hair, brown goatee. He was rich, judging by his clothes, but not a politician, judging by his carefree attitude. He looked like he would be an easy target.

The Soldier stared at the photo for several seconds before looking back up at his handler.

"No," he replied.

His handler smiled, clearly pleased.

"Good. He's your next target. Eliminate him." The handler kept smiling. "Preferably in a way we can frame as an accident. But we'll take care of that part."

The Soldier nodded. The order wasn't unusual. One thought stuck with him, however.

His handler had expected him to recognize the man.

Whether it was because he was an earlier target — which was unlikely considering the Soldier's success rate — or someone he might have crossed paths with before, the Soldier didn't know. It was odd that such importance had been placed on the man's identity and that his handler had looked so pleased when the Soldier didn't recognize him.

The Soldier _didn't_ know the man, but he apparently should have.

The Soldier had no idea why.

The man's name was Anthony Edward Stark and he was a weapons manufacturer. He was born into a wealthy family and had inherited Stark Industries from his reclusive uncle with the same name. The uncle had died in a car accident a couple of years prior. According to his file, Anthony Stark was a genius inventor and had a reputation of being bold and reckless.

There was nothing in his file that stood out to the Soldier — nothing that would explain why his handler had put such emphasis on the man's identity. He _did_ seem vaguely familiar, the Soldier couldn't deny that, but he might have seen him during one of his other missions. Stark apparently made frequent appearances in newspapers and on TV. The Soldier might not have a habit of reading or watching the news, but it was impossible to avoid entirely.

The Soldier was reluctantly intrigued by the situation. It was a break from the usual monotony of training, missions, and ice.

Why was this man special?

In the end, it wouldn't matter — the Soldier was tasked with killing him. But, until the hit was carried out, the Soldier allowed himself to be curious.

As his file had said, Stark was a reckless man. Despite his wealth, he preferred to travel without bodyguards and he had very little security surrounding his homes. He seemed to think he was invincible.

Just like the Soldier had expected, Stark made for an easy target.

The Soldier decided that a car accident would be the best way to stage Stark's death. Stark might not be a known drinker, but anyone could get careless behind the wheel. The fact that he and his uncle would die in the same way might raise a few concerns, or simply be shrugged off as a hereditary disregard for automobile safety.

It was easy to find an opportunity.

Two days into his mission, the Solder was told that Stark intended to travel to one of his more secluded mansions. A dark, deserted country road was the perfect place for an assassination. No witnesses would be present and it might take hours before the wreckage was found.

The Soldier lay in wait, his rifle at the ready.

When Stark's car came down the winding road, it was the only one in sight. It was easy to follow, the headlights bright beacons in the dark. The Soldier waited patiently for the best angle before squeezing the trigger.

As the tire blew out, the car swerved and crashed into a tree on the side of the road. The Soldier waited a beat, his crosshairs trained on the driver's side window. Movement soon told him that Stark was not yet dead, nor unconscious.

The Soldier's next shot shattered the window, but missed its target. The Soldier felt a flare of annoyance — he hated when he missed.

Stark had ducked by then, no longer visible from the Soldier's current vantage point. Without hesitation, the Soldier put his rifle aside and got to his feet. He made his way down the small hill he had stationed himself on and onto the road. While it would have been easier if Stark had died from the crash or one of the Soldier's bullets, he wasn't unfamiliar with targets who required a more direct approach. It made very little difference to him.

As he approached, the Soldier detected movement in the car, but wasn't concerned. According to his file, Stark was a rich socialite who, despite building weapons, had no combat experience. He wasn't a threat.

By the time the Soldier reached the car and ripped open the driver's side door, Stark had managed to crawl into the passenger seat, no doubt attempting to escape the vehicle on that side. He turned to face the Soldier, however, and, surprisingly, there was a gun in his hand. The Soldier hadn't expected to find himself at gunpoint. He was just about to duck out of the line of fire when his gaze landed on Stark's face.

Something inside the Soldier's chest twisted.

He didn't know what or why — he had never felt anything like it before — but he found himself frozen in place. Despite his instincts screaming at him to move, he just stood there, staring.

Stark was staring back.

The Soldier still couldn't say he recognized him, but there was something — a _feeling_ , buried deep inside of him — that made him hesitate. A sense of _wrongness_ he hadn't felt in what must be years. A hint of familiarity in the curve of Stark's jaw and the determination in his eyes.

He knew him.

The Soldier didn't recognize him, but he _knew_ him. He must have. When or how, he didn't know, but he knew him. Even his handler had expected him to know this man.

The Soldier could feel his breaths begin to quicken, his mind spinning.

Who was this man? Where had he Soldier seen him before?

It was a miracle Stark hadn't shot him yet. The Soldier was just standing there, a blatantly easy target, but Stark seemed to be hesitating, too. Perhaps he didn't want to kill, only defend himself. Perhaps he was too frightened. Or perhaps he sensed the Soldier's doubt.

Neither of them moved. The Soldier wasn't even sure if he could, his limbs locked in place by the overwhelming feeling of _wrongness_. This was all wrong.

Was he meant to kill this man? Could he?

A sudden bright flicker in the corner of the Soldier's eye made him snap back to attention. Even without looking, he knew it had to be another car. He couldn't risk being seen.

When Stark turned his head, reflexively looking at the approaching car, the Soldier quickly let go of the mangled car door and took off, disappearing into the shadows.

That had been a close call — far too close — but the Soldier knew that wasn't why his heart was racing. No, it was because of that man. The Soldier _knew him_ , even if he didn't know how or from where.

He knew he would be punished for not having completed his mission but, in that moment, he didn't even care. As he made his way back to his rifle, gathering up every trace of his presence, all he felt was relief. He didn't want to kill Stark. That was a failure in itself — the Soldier wasn't meant to have opinions on his targets — but he couldn't deny it.

He knew Stark and he didn't want him to die.

His handler was _livid_.

The assassination had failed, but not because of unforeseen circumstances or outside influence. The Soldier could easily have killed Stark, even at the threat of getting shot at point-blank range. It would have been a simple matter of dragging him back across the seats and strangling him. But the Soldier hadn't and, because of that, the mission had failed.

_He_ had failed.

And yet, he didn't regret having done so. He didn't regret allowing Stark to live. That, he knew, was an even bigger failure than not having killed his target, so he kept it to himself.

Instead, he obediently accepted the punishment and reprimands. He didn't fight it — didn't say a word. Even as bones broke and his blood splattered onto the concrete floor, he silently accepted the price of his actions.

He still didn't regret them.

Near the end, when he was exhausted and dizzy from the pain, slumped to his knees, his handler spoke.

"I should have known you would fail." He spat the words as if they left a bad taste in his mouth. "You're still weak — still cling to the pathetic pieces of your old self."

The Soldier couldn't breathe.

His old self? He had been someone before this? And Stark had been a part of it?

Despite knowing he would probably receive even worse punishment, the Soldier gathered enough strength to speak.

"Who is he?" he asked, voice almost cracking.

His handler sneered, contempt written in every line of his face.

"None of your concern — not anymore. He will be dead soon."

The Soldier sucked in a trembling breath, his chest squeezing from inexplicable pain. Why the thought of Stark dying bothered him so much, he didn't know. His handler took pleasure in his suffering, however, that much was obvious.

His handler bent down until their eyes were level, a sinister smile on his lips.

"Do you really want to know?" he asked, bright maliciousness filling his gaze.

The Soldier nodded shakily, despite his feeling of unease. His handler wouldn't look so pleased unless the answer would be excruciatingly painful.

"He used to be your lover."

The words were said with a mix of disgust and glee, and they shook the Soldier to his core.

He'd had a lover? He had _loved_?

His breathing picked up as he tried to claw through his memories, hoping to find a shred of evidence. But everything was a patchwork of death, suffering, and big, gaping holes. His handler could be lying, but, at the same time, the Soldier knew he wasn't. He could _feel it_ — he just didn't remember.

He had, at one point, been the kind of person who'd had a lover.

He had _loved_.

His handler straightened, his face a cruel grimace of satisfaction.

"Wipe him," he ordered, making the Solder's head snap up. " _Thoroughly_."

Despite the pain and broken bones, the Soldier fought when the guards came to take him. He couldn't let them wipe him — he didn't want to forget. Not this — not the knowledge that he had once been able to love.

Not the man he had once loved.

Had he not been so injured, he might have managed to fight them off. He screamed in frustration when they grabbed him, his desperation bleeding into furious anger, then back into desperation again.

He didn't want to forget.

But they would see to it that he did.

The Soldier was on a mission in New York when he saw a face he vaguely recognized. That was unusual, since he was rarely asked to remember people's faces. The Soldier assumed the man had been connected to one of his targets — perhaps an associate or a relative. The Soldier saw no other reason why he would recognize a smiling man on a billboard.

When he reported this to his handler, he was given a disapproving look and a curtly snapped reprimand. The Soldier was unsure of what he had done wrong, but didn't struggle when they put him in the chair.

More years passed. Things were changing quickly now, the Soldier constantly being given new technology and better weapons as he prepared for his missions. He learned them all in a matter of hours, to the delight of his handlers.

As things changed, so did his targets. Rare were the times when he killed military officers or spies. Most of them were civilians — scientists, professors, politicians, reporters, corporate owners. Why that was, he couldn't say. It wasn't his place.

His only purpose was to complete his missions, nothing else.

The Soldier was in Rome when every single broadcast suddenly turned their focus on New York. He had the TV on to monitor the local news — if anything big happened in Rome, it might affect his mission — but the situation in New York clearly took precedence.

Aliens were invading.

Shaky, live footage played across the screen, the tension and fear palpable on the reporters' faces. There was a group fighting the aliens, the news said, among them Captain America and the billionaire Tony Stark.

The Soldier watched as the events in New York continued to unfold. It was difficult to tell what was happening based only on the news feeds, but the Soldier suspected it might be irrelevant to him either way. He was half a world away.

But, just to be sure, the Soldier contacted his handler once the battle in New York had been won, the alien threat neutralized.

"Your orders remain the same, Soldier," was the reply.

"Acknowledged."

He turned off the TV and got ready for his mission.

"This is your target."

The file placed in front of him was thick — thicker than any folder the Soldier had been given before.

"He will be extremely difficult to kill."

The Soldier opened the file, a dark-skinned man with an eye patch looking back at him from the attached photo. Judging by the man's credentials, the Soldier could only agree with his handler's assessment. Director Nicholas Fury didn't seem like the kind of man who would let his guard down and leave himself open to a sniper attack.

The Soldier might have to be more direct with this one.

"Time frame?" he asked.

"As soon as possible." His handler nodded toward the file. "It's high priority. You'll be reporting straight to the top on this one."

That had only happened a couple of times that the Soldier could remember, but made sense considering the target. Fury might not be a public figure, but high profile nonetheless.

"Other agents are assigned to the same case," his handler continued. "Use them as you see fit."

The Soldier nodded in confirmation, even if he doubted support would be needed.

He never failed a mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly thought this would be the most difficult chapter to write, but it turned out to be the easiest. Imagine that.


	3. Captain

* * *

As expected, killing Director Fury was no easy task. The man was highly trained, resourceful, and wise enough not to underestimate a threat. After the first attempt failed, it took some time to locate him again. Fury knew how to get off the grid and, had anyone but the Soldier been after him, he might have managed to slip away unnoticed.

The Soldier tracked him to an unknown apartment and quickly found the best vantage point. He didn't know who the apartment belonged to — it hadn't been listed as one of Fury's — but that hardly mattered. It might be some kind of safe house. Fury was, in all probability, injured after the car crash and was attempting to lie low.

Unsurprisingly, Fury was too cautious to come anywhere near the windows. He might also be trying to disrupt audio surveillance by playing music, but that was only marginally successful. Even if he might not be aware of the Soldier's presence on the opposite rooftop, Fury clearly knew better than to assume that the threat to his life was over.

No matter how cautious the director was, he would have to move eventually, however, if only to go to the bathroom.

The Soldier would be ready.

An undeterminable amount of time had passed, the Soldier more focused on the motionless apartment rather than the ticking clock, when a motorcycle came rumbling down the street. That wasn't noteworthy in and of itself — several cars had driven past since the Soldier arrived — but it became more relevant when the motorcycle stopped outside the building the Soldier was watching. He didn't let his attention waver, but the Soldier was aware of the newcomer.

Even more so when the man decided to climb inside the apartment through one of the windows. It was difficult to determine if he was backup sent to protect Fury or the owner of the apartment, but the Soldier suspected the latter. In all probability, the music Fury was playing had alerted him to someone having broken into his home.

That theory was further strengthened by his body language, which showed a high level of wariness. His voice when he found Fury was equally suspicious. Judging by the words they exchanged, the two men knew each other, but there was distrust and tension between them.

In a stroke of luck, the man stopped in view of one of the windows, offering the Soldier valuable insight into what was happening inside the room.

The Soldier watched the man's face, calculating where Fury was located based on the direction of his gaze. Sitting down, it seemed, probably weakened by his injuries. The Soldier waited, allowing the conversation to progress, even if he knew they might be speaking in some kind of code he didn't understand. In a couple of minutes, none of that would matter.

The man — tall, broad, and no doubt a substantial threat in close-range combat — had what looked to be a big, round shield strapped to one of his arms. Exactly who he was remained unclear, since he hadn't been a part of the information packet the Soldier had been given. That made the man an unknown variable that might jeopardize the mission. Even so, the Soldier had no reason to kill him yet.

The moment the Soldier had been waiting for eventually came. The man's gaze rose higher but lost none of its focus, meaning Fury must have stood up. It was a gamble to shoot someone through a wall — even more so without a clear visual — but it might be the only opportunity the Soldier was given.

He lined up his shot and, after a slow exhale, squeezed the trigger.

Three bullets ripped through the wall.

The shouts of pain and the sound of a body hitting the floor were muffled, but loud enough to let the Soldier know his shots had found their mark. The nameless man was quick to react, reaching down to pull Fury out of the line of fire while simultaneously trying to locate where the shots had come from. His gaze soon flicked to the window, up to where the Soldier was perched, but seemed to prioritize Fury for the time being.

The Soldier lingered on the roof, putting his rifle aside while listening to what was probably Fury's last words, followed by the entry of a third individual. She identified herself as an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. and, when the tinny voice on her radio asked about the shooter, the Soldier knew it was time for him to make his exit. Leaving witnesses was never ideal, but his main mission had been completed.

He turned and ran.

The distant sound of shattering glass told the Soldier that someone was giving chase — most likely the man with the shield. More noise followed, crashes and bangs from below his feet, signaling that the man was hot on his heels. How the nameless man was able to keep up, the Soldier didn't know. He could usually outrun any of the hostiles he encountered, just like his strength and reflexes gave him the upper hand in any fight. But, in the end, the reason didn't matter as long as the Soldier was able to make his escape.

He took a running leap down onto the next rooftop, quickly rolling to his feet and continuing on. He was almost in the clear.

The sound of a window shattering behind him told the Soldier he wouldn't be able to slip away unnoticed. The man had caught up.

The Soldier skidded to a halt and turned around, seeing the flash of _something_ coming toward him in the corner of his eye. The shield, he assumed, and raised his metal hand to catch it. The shield slammed into his hand with considerable force, but the Soldier didn't even sway. The man standing on the other end of the roof looked surprised — he clearly hadn't expected the Soldier to be able to catch it.

Which the Soldier could understand — the strength behind the throw would have been enough to break the bones of a normal man. But the Soldier wasn't a normal man and he had no intention of lingering long enough to see which one of them was stronger. His orders were to perform the hit and disappear. He couldn't risk being delayed or captured.

Without hesitation, the Soldier shifted his stance, pulled his arm back, and sent the shield hurtling back toward the man. He didn't stop to see whether or not the man caught it, knowing his window to retreat might only last a couple of seconds.

He had turned and jumped off the building in the next breath.

The Soldier fully expected to be put away and frozen again once Fury had been terminated, but he was instead ordered to remain at the base and wait for further instructions.

It didn't take long before he was made aware of why. He was given two new targets — the man with the shield and a woman — who were trying to sabotage the launch of Project Insight. He had encountered the woman before, he was told, during one of his missions, but he couldn't remember. She must have disappeared into one of the black holes of his mind.

Both were highly trained and dangerous, he was given a strict time limit.

Subtlety would have to be set aside for this one — and that backup might come in handy after all.

The woman proved to be a big annoyance.

When the Soldier attacked their car, she was the one who saved the two men from his bullets — one of which wasn't even a target, but would have to be counted as necessary collateral. Much like Jasper Sitwell.

The man with the shield was easily incapacitated, at least momentarily, when he was sent flying with one shot from the Soldier's grenade launcher. The woman was more bothersome, weaving her way through traffic, dodging the bullets peppering the cars around her. She was more resourceful than the Soldier had expected and even came dangerously close to blowing the Soldier's brains out.

Had the bullet not ricocheted off his goggles, he might very well have died.

Having to admit that he had underestimated her filled the Soldier with anger and, as he watched the woman flee down the street, that anger _gnawed_ at him. He wanted her to pay — he couldn't let her best him. The others could handle the man with the shield.

It might be a mistake to let emotions get the better of him, but the Soldier couldn't say that he cared. He focused solely on the woman as he jumped off the bridge and followed her path down the street. She would no doubt be hiding, attempting to call for backup, but shouldn't be too hard to find.

He quickly disposed of an incoming police car with a grenade and continued onward, reloading without breaking his stride. Civilians were screaming, running in every direction as they tried to get away from him. The Soldier ignored them — they were inconsequential. He wanted the woman.

Cars had been left abandoned on the streets, offering her a number of places to hide. He slowed his steps, his gaze flicking from vehicle to vehicle, trying to catch a glimpse of her.

It took him a second, especially with all the screaming civilians, but he eventually heard her, talking urgently into her phone. She was hidden behind one of the cars parked along the sidewalk. A controlled explosion would no doubt be the best way to dispose of her.

He should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

He watched the bomb roll across the street, fully expecting her to burst out from her cover when she noticed — if she was as attentive as she seemed, she should catch on before the blast. He was almost disappointed when she didn't, the car going up in flames without as much as a sound from her.

In the next second, she was on him — literally on top of his shoulders.

He had underestimated her again and it was only his quick reflexes that kept her from tightening her garrote around his throat. The Soldier threw her off as soon as possible, sending her flying into a nearby car, but she didn't stay down for long.

Had she not been one of his targets, he would have been impressed by her resilience — now he was just angry.

Each time he thought he had her pinned, she pulled out another trick from up her sleeve. Like that annoying little gadget that momentarily incapacitated his metal arm when he tried to shoot her. The anger kept building, each one of her actions pushing him closer and closer to a blind rage he usually tried to avoid. His targets were never this difficult to kill. It _infuriated him_ that she had outsmarted him, time and time again, and _still_ wasn't dead.

She would be soon — he would make sure of that.

He followed her, guided by her warning shouts to the cowering civilians, and took immense pleasure in seeing one of his bullets _finally_ find its mark. She stumbled and dived down next to a car. He knew she wasn't dead yet — the shot had only caught her in the shoulder — but triumph was thrumming through him all the same. All it would take was one last squeeze of the trigger — she was in no state to dodge this time.

He had her.

The man with the shield came out of nowhere.

It was jarring to be torn out of the narrow focus the Soldier had allowed himself to embrace in the pursuit of the woman and suddenly face a new threat. He still did, turning without hesitation to slam his fist into the man's shield. The sound of metal against metal reverberated through the air.

The anger flared brighter, the Soldier's frustration with his targets making him grind his teeth. They weren't usually this difficult — this _annoying_. With a barely curbed snarl, he kicked the man off the car they were standing on, sending him flying.

What followed was a frustratingly even fight.

The Soldier still didn't know who the man with the shield was, but he was clearly enhanced in some way. A normal human wouldn't be able to withstand the force behind the Soldier's punches, nor move quickly enough to dodge bullets and attacks alike. They were more or less on par, had it not been for the man's intent. He fought to disarm and incapacitate, not kill.

The Soldier had no such reservations.

It was still not an easy fight. Weapons were drawn and discarded, faster than most would be able to follow. Kicks and blows were exchanged, some leaving them both reeling, if only for a beat or two. The Soldier's anger kept growing, the hits raining down fast and vicious.

Neither of them seemed able to gain the upper hand.

It seemed like a dance that would never end, until, suddenly, it did.

When he was first thrown, the Soldier didn't realize his mask had been torn off. He didn't notice until he had already rolled to his feet and turned around to face his opponent again. Losing the mask wasn't a problem — despite all the murders the Soldier had committed, his face wasn't one that people recognized — but the change in the man with the shield was instantaneous.

He dropped his fighting stance, shock and confusion written across his face. Even if it shouldn't have been possible, he looked at the Soldier as if he knew him. As if he could hardly believe it, but definitely recognized him. In that moment — during that split second of confused vulnerability — he looked familiar.

He looked like someone the Soldier might have known at some point in his life.

"Bucky?"

The man said the name with both hope and disbelief. Why he said it at all, the Soldier didn't know.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" he shot back, pushing away the nagging familiarity in favor of raising his gun. The man was his mission and he was ordered to kill him.

Before he had time to fire, an attack came out of nowhere, throwing him off his feet. The Soldier quickly got up, only briefly registering that the second man from the car had arrived — by means of flying, of all things. The Soldier focused back on the man with the shield, but he hadn't moved. He made no attempt to reengage, still staring at the Soldier as if he knew him.

The Soldier felt a twist of hesitation — another flash of familiarity — but reflexes won out. He tried to shoot the man again, this time hindered by an incoming grenade from his own discarded weapon, fired by that annoying woman.

At that point, the Soldier decided to retreat. He had lost the upper hand and the other two — the woman and second man from the car — would no doubt intervene if he tried to attack the man with the shield again. It was better to fall back and regroup. He would no doubt be reprimanded for not having been able to eliminate his targets, but there was nothing more he could do — not at this stage.

As he left the scene, his thoughts weren't on his failure or how he could correct it, however. They were spinning in another direction entirely, distracted by the look of recognition on the man's face and the unnerving sense of familiarity the Soldier had felt when he saw him. What it all meant, he didn't know, too many questions circling inside his head.

One of them stood out more than the others, however, ringing out louder and louder.

Who was Bucky?

Since he didn't know what else to do, the Soldier returned to the base. His arm had been damaged in the fight and it needed repairs. He really had nowhere else to go.

He was ushered to the vault and into the chair, a technician getting to work on his arm. The Soldier barely noticed. He sat staring straight ahead, lost to the images that had started flashing through his mind. They were bright and jarring, a chaotic jumble of impressions he had no hope of sorting through. He saw the man from the bridge — different yet the same — clinging to the side of a speeding train. There was snow and howling wind and panicked shouts. The Soldier felt the weightlessness of falling.

Memories, he realized — they were memories.

At first, he wasn't sure they were his. But they had to be, didn't they? The man had called him Bucky. Just like today, back on that train in the snowy mountains, he had called him Bucky.

Was Bucky the Soldier's name? Did he even have one?

The images kept flickering past, growing steadily worse. There was pain and blood, a cramped room with bright lights, the spine-chilling whirr of a saw cutting into his arm, and the face of a bespectacled man that filled him with equal measures of fear and fury.

Before he had time to stop himself, the Soldier lashed out, sending the technician flying across the room. The armed guards immediately snapped to attention, raising their weapons, but the Soldier was too caught up in his thoughts to be bothered about that.

Were these his memories? What had been done to him?

Who was he?

The room was cleared aside from the guards, the Soldier remaining in the chair, staring blankly ahead. He didn't even react when Secretary Pierce entered the vault. There were too many thoughts clamoring for attention inside his head. He felt fractured and _wrong_ , as if he had been put together in the incorrect order, with mismatching pieces. And now the cracks were beginning to show, the sharp edges grinding against each other to the point of pain. He could glimpse something else through those cracks — a life he had forgotten that might have been his. One that might have been better than this one.

A slap snapped him back to the present, but his thoughts were still on those flickering fractions of memories.

"The man on the bridge," he heard himself say, "who was he?"

Secretary Pierce looked at him and the Soldier could see the lie coming before it was even spoken.

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment."

That sounded credible considering how often the Solder was made to forget his missions, but he _knew_ he was being lied to. The question was _why_. What was it about that man that made Secretary Pierce lie to him?

Despite what it might cost him, the Soldier refused to let the subject drop.

"I knew him."

Director Pierce didn't look pleased. He ignored the statement and instead started talking about the brightness of their future, to which the Soldier only listened with half an ear. He had heard the speech before, but had never actually believed in it. He had never been _against_ it, either, because it wasn't his place to have opinions. He followed orders, nothing more.

This time, more so than any other, he really didn't care about HYDRA's vision or what role he had to play in it. He only wanted to know why the man on the bridge was so familiar and why Director Pierce had to lie about where the Soldier had seen him before.

"But I knew him," he repeated, once Director Piece was done. Softer this time, his throat closing around the words. He could hear his own desperation — the plea for an explanation that would settle the fear and confusion threatening to choke him.

It seemed important — a key to the Soldier's past, if only he was allowed to find the door it would unlock.

He wasn't surprised when the order to wipe him was given instead. He felt a wave of hopelessness, followed by grief. He would be made to forget again. He didn't want to, but there was no point in fighting. The memories weren't his to keep.

Perhaps he would even be better off without them — it would erase all of the doubt and turmoil he felt. He could return to simply following orders. It would probably hurt less, to _not_ have these memories.

He didn't struggle as they pushed him to lie back in the chair.

The Soldier was ordered to kill the man known as Captain America. He was told he had failed once already and another mistake would not be tolerated. The Captain had to be eliminated, no matter the cost, and not be allowed to sabotage the launch of Project Insight.

The Soldier nodded and went on the hunt.

"People are going to die, Buck," the Captain said. "I can't let that happen."

The Soldier looked at the man standing further down the gangway. The Captain wore an outdated uniform that was strangely familiar and, for some reason, called the Soldier 'Buck.' There was no reason for him to do that, was there? Even if that, too, seemed strangely familiar.

The Soldier pushed the thought aside — he had his mission and failure wasn't an option. The controls to the Helicarrier were behind him and he had to keep the Captain from reaching them.

Silence lingered between them, the Captain's desperation noticeably increasing the longer it held. His expression spoke of pain and regret, his voice growing thicker when he spoke.

"Please don't make me do this."

When the Soldier didn't reply, the Captain clenched his jaw. Despite his obvious reluctance, there was no mistaking the resolve in his gaze — he would fight, regardless of who he was mistaking the Soldier for.

And fight they did.

They were more or less evenly matched, but the Captain had the disadvantage of trying to reach the controls and sabotage the Helicarriers, while the Soldier could focus on ripping him apart.

That was still easier said than done. The Captain was swift and had an easier time falling back on defense thanks to his shield. It was almost impossible to reach past it and the Soldier's frustration grew each time the Captain dodged or redirected his blows. Some connected, but not nearly enough to win him the fight.

He might in fact be losing — the Captain was able to get to the controls not once, but twice in short succession.

A flare of anger made the Soldier push them over the banister and onto the suspended platform underneath. It was far from graceful, but it certainly made the Captain unable to reach the controls a third time.

Except he underestimated the Captain's stubbornness.

After another sequence of blows, the Soldier was kicked off the suspended platform, down onto the surface of the glass dome. He landed hard, the glass cracking under his weight but not breaking. For a couple of beats, he could focus only on trying to gasp for air, his chest suddenly a gaping, empty hole he couldn't seem to fill. He knew that was mostly the shock of getting his breath knocked out of him, however, and that it would pass within seconds.

He didn't have time to waste.

As soon as he was able, he pushed himself to his feet, shaking off as much of the pain as he could. The Captain was down with him on the glass dome, trying to fetch the chip he needed to sabotage the Helicarriers. The Soldier grit his teeth and scooped up the Captain's forgotten shield, not hesitating to throw it back at its owner.

With that, they engaged again.

Even the Captain was getting more ruthless at that point, either because of the urgency or the exhaustion. He still tried to disarm rather than kill, but when he reached the point where he had to dislocate the Soldier's shoulder, he did so without much hesitation. The Soldier screamed in pain and, before he had time to break free, was locked in a chokehold he wasn't able to escape.

He _tried_ , fuelled both by anger and increasing desperation, but the Captain didn't let go. The Soldier gasped for air, but he knew it was pointless.

It didn't take long before he lost consciousness.

He couldn't have been out for more than a couple of seconds, two minutes, tops.

When he opened his eyes again, dizzy and disoriented, the Captain was climbing back up onto the suspended platform. The Soldier had to assume the Captain now had the chip. That meant the Soldier was dangerously close to failing his mission.

He stumbled as he pushed himself to his feet, immediately reaching for one of his guns. The Soldier was too far away to catch up — his right arm a pulsing mass of agony — but the Captain would be an easy target as he continued to climb.

The Soldier raised his gun and took aim. His hand wasn't quite as steady as it usually would be and lingering dark spots were still dancing across his vision, but he should manage. He _had_ to.

His first bullet tore through the Captain's thigh. The second ricocheted off the metal pipes dangerously close to the Captain's hand. The Soldier waited with the third, since the Captain managed to climb out of his direct line of sight. He would be back, though, once he reached the control panel.

The Soldier was right.

Why the Captain continued without a second thought to his own safety, the Soldier didn't know — he had to realize he was unprotected and foolishly vulnerable. But, if the Captain didn't hesitate, neither would the Soldier. He raised his gun and squeezed the trigger.

As the Captain's knees buckled, the bullet having found its mark, the Soldier felt nothing but satisfaction.

He had won.

Or at least he _should_ have won. But, once again, the Soldier had underestimated the Captain's stubbornness.

Somehow, despite the numerous injuries he had sustained, the Captain was able to pull himself up and insert the chip. The Soldier could do nothing but watch as it happened, out of bullets and too far away to stop him.

The Soldier had failed.

When the first explosion rocked the Helicarrier, the Soldier was knocked off his feet. He was still reeling from his failure, his senses dulled from pain and exhaustion. When beams from the ceiling came crashing down on him, he was too slow to move out of the way.

He heard himself scream in pain, but it was almost drowned out by the ear-splitting sound of shrieking metal and breaking glass.

The crushing weight on top of him told him he was pinned. It was difficult not to panic in that moment, knowing he was trapped inside a flying aircraft that had just began a slow, groaning descent. His mind went blank, focusing only on trying to get out from under the big chunk of metal on top of him.

To the Soldier's surprise, the Captain came to help him. The Soldier didn't understand why. Had he not made it clear that he intended to kill the man? Why was the Captain being so reckless? Why was he _helping_ his enemy?

And why did a part of the Soldier feel so relieved? Even _grateful_?

Despite his reservations, the Soldier took the opportunity the Captain offered, sliding out from under the collapsed beam. He stumbled to his feet, frustrated and confused by the Captain's show of compassion. It felt good — _right_ — even if it shouldn't have.

Whatever gratefulness the Soldier felt was replaced by anger the moment the Captain spoke.

"You know me," he said.

The Soldier didn't want to hear it — not when he could feel some frail, forgotten part of himself resonate with what the Captain was saying. Everything was just a jumble of confused emotions, the Solder lashing out in desperation.

"No I _don't_ ," he snarled, throwing a punch that made them both lose their balance.

He was lying, though. He _did_ know this man. He just didn't know how or from where. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know — what it would mean if it was true.

The Soldier was panting, barely able to stand as the Helicarrier continued to shift underneath their feet.

"Bucky, you've known me your whole life."

Anger was easier than any of the other emotions whirling around inside of him. It felt safer than the gaping holes of memories — the ones the Captain were trying to fill. The Soldier lashed out again, the back of his hand connecting with the Captain's cheek.

Yet no matter how many times the Soldier hit him or how tired he must be, the Captain continued on, relentless.  
  
"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes—"

"SHUT UP!" the Soldier roared, throwing a desperate punch against the Captain's shield.

He managed to put enough force behind it to knock the Captain to the ground, but not without falling onto all fours himself. When they both pushed themselves to their feet, the Captain was no longer wearing his helmet.

His face was bloodied and bruised, but he still looked familiar. The Soldier _did_ know him. But he didn't want to.

He was just so confused.

"I'm not going to fight you," the Captain said, his shield slipping from his arm and disappearing through the gaping holes in the glass panels underneath them.

Seeing that only made the Soldier more angry. Who was this man? Why was he so determined? Why was he so _reckless_?

"You're my friend."

The Soldier hated him. He hated this man for causing him so much agony — for reawakening memories he didn't even know how to handle. He was the Soldier, not Bucky. He was a lethal, ruthless assassin, not this man's friend.

He couldn't be.

The Captain didn't even struggle when the Soldier tackled him to the ground. He didn't react when the Soldier growled that he was his mission, nothing more. He didn't defend himself when the Soldier started punching him, again and again and again, unleashing all the fear, confusion, and anger he was feeling.

The Captain didn't fight him.

The Soldier didn't know what made him slow down — his target was right there, overpowered and defenseless — but he did. His arm was already pulled back, ready for the next blow, but he couldn't bring himself to follow through. His breaths were short and shallow, his heartbeats loud and echoing inside of him, all while the Helicarrier came crashing down around them.

He shouldn't stop. The Captain had to die — he was the Soldier's mission.

"Then finish it," the Captain said, the words full of both pain and acceptance. He was looking up at the Soldier without a single shred of fear on his face — only acceptance. "'Cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line."

Those words seemed to sink into the Soldier, slipping in through the cracks of his mind and into the unknown vastness beyond. Like they belonged. They tugged and pulled, the cracks growing wider — more light trickling through.

The Soldier was panting, staring down at the man underneath him — his mission.

His friend?

The Soldier didn't know what to do. He felt like he might break — as if those words might just rip him apart from the inside out. He knew this man. He _did_ know him. He just didn't know from where. He didn't know if he wanted to find out. But he also didn't know if he could kill him.

There were so many questions — so many answers the Soldier didn't even know if he wanted.

Before he had time to make a decision, a piece of falling debris crushed the glass underneath them, leaving a gaping emptiness in its stead. The Soldier managed to grab one of the beams at the last second.

The Captain didn't even try.

He fell, along with the broken pieces of the Helicarrier, toward the river below.

Seconds felt like minutes.

As the Soldier watched, the Captain hit the water and disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing I find fascinating is that a lot of people describe the Winter Soldier as ONLY cool and rational. I mean, he _is_ in many ways, but have you seen the movie? He is absolutely _furious_ at Natasha and he looks fucking _gleeful_ when he shoots Steve at the end. Which I think shows just how thorough the brainwashing was, because a part of him _does_ enjoy shooting Steve, if only because he thought he had completed his mission and won over a difficult target.
> 
> So yeah. I know it feels safer to just say that the Winter Soldier is calm, rational, and emotionless, but he isn't. And it was interesting to explore that in such depth in this chapter.


	4. Ghost

* * *

The Soldier stared out the hotel window, watching the people walk past on the lit sidewalk below. The room was dark behind him, the hum of the mini bar a white noise in the background. Two days had passed since the Helicarrier crash — since HYDRA was exposed — and the Soldier was aimless.

After dragging the injured Captain out of the river, he had made tentative attempts to contact his handler or anyone of his usual contacts.

No one answered.

That was probably for the best, since the Soldier wasn't sure if he actually wanted to go back. Not that he knew where he would go instead, but anywhere was probably better than HYDRA.

And that led him to this hotel room. He had withdrawn funds from the various HYDRA accounts he had used over the years — all of them still accessible — and decided to lay low, at least for now. Perhaps for the foreseeable future.

He had never considered what he would do if he was ever left to his own devices. That had never been an option before, what with HYDRA's habit of strict rules and firm control. The world felt big and foreign from where the Soldier was standing — a place in which he didn't belong and maybe never would. What could someone like him do, once his masters disappeared?

For now, he focused on the practical.

He had his hotel room, new clothes, and a phone. There was no one for him to call, but he had learned that phones had a number of other uses nowadays — ones that were incredibly helpful.

There was a limit to what he could do, however, seeing as he had no identity and, consequentially, no papers. He had no idea who he was. The Captain had tried to convince him that his name was Bucky, but the Soldier wasn't going to believe that without proof. The flashes of memories inside his own mind weren't enough — he knew far too much about HYDRA's methods to fully trust what he saw. At least until he felt more stable, he had to assume the memories might be planted.

Fortunately, Captain America was a public figure — it shouldn't be too difficult to find information about him. And, if he was telling the truth about them growing up together, there had to be records of that.

The Soldier turned away from the window and pulled out his phone.

It was as good a place to start as any — it wasn't like he had anything better to do.

The Soldier fought the urge to pull his cap even lower as he stepped inside the Smithsonian. He wasn't worried about the civilians recognizing him, but there were no doubt surveillance cameras and security personnel. From what he had seen on the news, he wasn't wanted in relation to any crimes yet, but he suspected that there were still people out there looking for him.

Besides, it never hurt to be careful.

He slowly made his way toward the Captain America exhibit, keeping away from the bigger crowds as best he could. While he wanted to blame his pace on caution, he knew it was more because of dread. He wasn't sure what he would find once he stepped inside that exhibit, but he could only postpone it for so long.

A part of him expected to tense up the moment he stepped through the doorway, but he didn't. It was just a room, like the others. His gaze swept over the nearby displays, but nothing jumped out at him. There were no flashes of sudden clarity and forgotten memories rushing to meet him.

He wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved.

Maybe the Captain had been wrong after all.

The thought had barely crossed the Soldier's mind before he raised his gaze and, to his shock, saw his own face. It was right there, blazoned across the wall above a display of mannequins in mismatching uniforms. Next to him was the Captain. The Soldier didn't recognize the other faces, but they all seemed familiar — like people he had seen in a hazy dream.

The Soldier swallowed. Either the Captain was right, or the Soldier was a long lost relative of that man. They were the spitting image of each other.

But them being related didn't feel quite right — not considering the memories the Soldier had of the Captain, even if some of those memories had to be over seventy years old, in that case. That should probably have made him hesitant to believe what the Captain had been saying, but the Soldier had no idea how old he was. He knew he'd spent several years in cryo, but there was no way for him to know exactly how many. Well over forty, if he were to guess, simply based on the leaps in technology.

He had lived for a _long_ time, which meant that could be him.

The Soldier turned away from the portrait of himself, only to find himself facing another, this one a black and white photo. He stepped closer, automatically reading through the information presented next to his picture. According to the text, Bucky Barnes had died in 1944.

It was surreal to think that might be him.

If it _was_ him, why did everyone think he had died? The answer wasn't given on the first screen, so the Soldier moved on to the next. It took him a couple of tries, but he eventually found the correct one.

He had fallen off a speeding train in Austria.

The ground seemed to sway underneath the Soldier's feet and, for a second, the only thing he could hear was the roaring wind and Steve shouting his name.

The moment passed as quickly as it had come and the Soldier sucked in a sharp breath. His head spun and it took him a second to realize he was shaking. He rubbed a hand over his face, careful not to dislodge his cap, and stepped back from the screen.

Those had to be his memories, didn't they? Even if HYDRA might be capable of planting whatever they wanted inside his head, why would they? Why _these_ memories? They wouldn't benefit HYDRA in any way.

They _had_ to be his memories.

The Soldier took another breath and turned his head, hoping to ease some of the tightness in his chest. His gaze just happened to land on a display a couple of feet away. At first glance, it looked no different from any of the others. It contained various items from the war — letters, a watch, a ring, and some other trinkets — but the Soldier found himself stepping closer, his previous distress forgotten.

The little sign said that the content were items that had belonged to the Captain himself, found amongst his things after he had crashed into the Atlantic. The Soldier stared down at the display, zeroing in on one of the items in particular.

The ring wasn't special in any way — scratched and worn, with little starbursts carved along its side — but the Soldier instantly knew he'd seen it before. Like everything else, he wasn't sure where, but he assumed the Captain must have worn it. Why the Soldier would remember this one ring with such clarity, he couldn't say, but it was undeniably a part of the puzzle.

Little by little, more and more pieces were falling into place.

He continued along the exhibit, learning about the Captain as well as himself. It was a bizarre experience, but the more the Soldier saw, the more certain he became that the Captain had been telling the truth. The Soldier still couldn't remember much, but it was all so familiar.

Exactly how he felt about that, he had yet to decide.

He stepped back from the display he was studying and, as soon as his gaze landed on the next screen, he froze.

Looking back at him was a face so familiar his heart _ached_ at the mere sight of it. The Soldier didn't know who the man was, but, somehow, despite the black and white photo, he knew the man's eyes were brown, just like his hair. He knew the smell of the man's skin and the calluses of his hands and the warmth of his smile.

The Soldier _knew him_.

He shuffled closer on numb legs, barely daring to look away from the photo. But he had to find out who the man was — how the Soldier knew him.

Finally, after several long seconds, he tore his gaze away, hurriedly reading through the lines of text next to the man's portrait. His name was Anthony Edward Stark and he had been a weapons manufacturer. He had built his company Stark Industries from the ground up and revolutionized warfare with his clever inventions and unrivalled genius. He had offered support to the Allied Forces during the war and personally outfitted the Howling Commandos. He was said to have been a close friend of Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes.

The Soldier could barely hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeats.

He _did_ know this man.

A feeling of longing rose within him, so desperate he nearly choked on it. There were no images this time, just that bone-deep, all-consuming longing. That wasn't an emotion the Soldier was used to, but he allowed himself to get swept up by it — to cherish whatever connection he had to this man, even if he couldn't remember it.

That all came crashing down when his gaze landed on the set of numbers displayed at the bottom of the screen. There were two of them — date of birth and date of death. The Soldier stared, some part of him wanting to vehemently deny what he was seeing.

The man had died almost thirty years ago.

He was gone.

The Soldier couldn't breathe. Something cold and ruthless wrapped around his chest, squeezing until he thought his ribs might crack under the pressure. It hurt — _God_ , it hurt.

He couldn't breathe.

The man was dead and the Soldier felt as if his world had ground to a sudden, painful halt. His ears were ringing with a deafening silence while a slow, creeping coldness started spreading through him.

He was too late.

To what, he didn't know. He just knew that he was too late. He had lost something incredibly precious and he didn't even know what it was.

He had to get out of there.

Maybe then he would be able to breathe again, or at least escape the suffocating feeling of having lost something irreplaceable.

Without a backward glance, barely able to keep himself from running, the Soldier turned and fled.

It took him three days to calm down from his visit to the Smithsonian. He spent them locked away inside his hotel room, the curtains drawn and lights off.

Even after those three days, he still didn't know why the death of Anthony Stark hurt to the point where he feared it might actually tear him apart. The pain was constant, never fading, and so heavy the Soldier sometimes had to remind himself to breathe.

Whoever that man was, he had been important.

The Soldier wished he could remember.

Another two days passed, brief snatches of memories returning. They weren't important in the grand scheme of things — the taste of his mother's cooking, a young Steve with a bloody nose and a shit-eating grin — but they were _his_. He had no idea how many memories he'd get back, but he knew how precious they were.

He bought a journal to write them down in.

The first time the Soldier saw Tony Stark on the news, he stopped breathing. Tony Stark looked so much like the man from the exhibit at the Smithsonian. The Soldier knew it couldn't be him, though. Anthony Stark had died.

After a little research, he found that this Tony Stark — also known as Iron Man — was the nephew of Anthony Edward Stark. They shared the same name and practically the same face, but were two different people.

With effort, the Soldier was able to swallow his disappointment.

The Soldier decided to leave D.C. There were still no warrants out for his arrest, but it was only a matter of time. He also suspected that Steve would attempt to find him as soon as he recovered from his injuries. In all honesty, he might already be out there looking for him, but didn't think to search in D.C because he assumed the Soldier had already moved on.

The Soldier didn't want to see Steve, at least not yet. He was still too confused — too broken. The Soldier wanted to have a better grasp on his memories and the past they both shared before he spoke to Steve again. He knew that meant he might never be ready to talk to him, but so be it.

In the dead of night, almost two weeks after HYDRA's fall, the Soldier stole a car and left D.C. He had no particular destination in mind as long as he could stay off the grid and away from anyone who might try to arrest him.

Fortunately for him, HYDRA had taught him how.

If the Soldier didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be.

One night, he dreamed of mischievous smiles and teasing banter. He dreamed of stolen moments, heated kisses, and breathtaking pleasure. He dreamed of a warm embrace and softly whispered words of love.

In the morning, he woke with Tony's name on his lips.

The first sob was wrenched out of him not a second later.

Remembering Tony — _his_ Tony — was painful.

Just like with Steve, the memories came in bits and pieces — fractured impressions the Soldier had to slot together to the best of his ability. There was no warning when one might come and no rhyme or reason to the order in which they arrived.

He remembered giving Tony his dog tags long before he remembered their first kiss. And the memory of how they first met was still missing.

The Soldier assumed most of them would return eventually, however. It seemed like the memories before his time with HYDRA were easier to remember than the ones during. Partly because of the chair — the memories he'd lost to the shock therapy would likely never come back. But there was also the fact that a part of him didn't _want_ to remember. Coming face to face with all of the horrific acts he had committed and everything he had suffered through at the hands of HYDRA might just break him.

And he wasn't wrong.

About a month after the fall of HYDRA, the nightmares started. Sometimes, they were just impressions — the smell of death, biting cold, or oppressive shadows — but, other times, it was like morbid movie reels playing out in excruciating detail before his eyes. He got to relive the torture and his crimes, over and over and over again.

He often woke up screaming. Other times, he had to rush to the bathroom to throw up.

He didn't want any of it, but had no idea how to make it stop. Maybe he _deserved_ these nightmares, considering how many lives he had ended — many of them innocent. He knew that now. Whenever he remembered a name, he made sure to look them up. It sometimes took time to find them, but he always did.

So many of them were innocents.

The Soldier had no idea if he would ever be able to forgive himself for that.

Weeks passed, the Soldier moving from city to city to avoid detection. He knew Steve was following his trail by then — he had seen him in Boston, dangerously close — but the Soldier was still one step ahead. He was good at disappearing.

The more time that passed, the more memories he was able to retrieve. They were still jumbled, but writing them down helped. He had a whole collection of journals and notebooks by then, full of his cramped handwriting and seemingly random doodles. He wasn't an artist by any means — not like Steve — but sometimes it helped to sketch things out, made them easier to remember.

He still mourned Tony — he always would.

Even if he knew that Tony would have been very old had he still been alive today, the Soldier would have given almost anything to see him again. To hear his voice and see him smile. To know that he'd never get the chance left a gaping, black hole in the Soldier's chest. To know that his Tony was gone — dead long before they had a chance to reunite — broke his heart to pieces. Some days, he could barely breathe for all the grief.

The Soldier had to turn off the TV or look away whenever the other Tony Stark made an appearance. It was excruciating to watch him. He looked so much like the Tony the Soldier remembered. Even the way he moved, how he spoke, and his facial expressions — all of it reminded the Soldier of his Tony.

It was simply too painful. It would never _not_ be painful.

He would never forget Tony.

It was in Atlanta that the Soldier got careless and Steve managed to catch up with him. How he had been tracked, the Soldier wasn't sure, but Steve was suddenly there, waiting for him when he returned to his motel room one evening.

Three months had passed since the events in D.C and the Soldier's first instinct was to run. Except his notebooks were in his room and he didn't want to leave them — last night he had _finally_ remembered how he and Tony met and had written it down in as much detail as he'd been able. There was also the matter of Steve's flying friend, who silently slid in place and cut off the Soldier's escape route.

He could fight his way out, of course — Steve's friend wasn't enhanced — but that seemed drastic. At least if they didn't attack him first, which wasn't likely.

The look on Steve's face was heartbreakingly hopeful, his stance open and not the least bit threatening.

"Bucky..."

The soldier grimaced.

"Don't call me that."

Steve's face fell and, despite knowing the kind of threat the Soldier posed, took a step closer. He had always had more heart than sense.

"It's your name. I—"

"I know," the Soldier interrupted, sharper than he'd intended. "I know it is. I just... that's not—" He had trouble finding words, still struggling against his instinct to run. "It's not me."

A brief silence lingered before Steve nodded in acceptance.

"Okay, I understand."

The Soldier doubted that, but chose not to argue. He was acutely aware of Steve's friend behind him, but both of them seemed to be making efforts to appear as non-threatening as possible. They clearly just wanted to talk, at least for now. The Soldier wasn't sure if he was ready for that, but, if he remembered Steve correctly, that wouldn't make much of a difference to someone that stubborn.

"Do you know who I am?" Steve asked, his voice carefully neutral. He was trying not to put pressure on the Soldier, that much was clear, but there was no hiding the hope in his eyes.

The Soldier hesitated. He could lie and try to hide how much he remembered, but that would require hurting Steve. The Soldier wasn't sure if he wanted to do that.

"You're Steve."

It was obvious that Steve was struggling to maintain his calm, patient composure.

"You remember me?"

The Soldier glanced down at the asphalt, then back up at Steve.

"Not all of it," he replied slowly. "But some."

The smile Steve gave him in that moment was painfully frail, but oh so hopeful.

"Well, that's a start," he said.

The Soldier supposed that was true.

He let Steve stay. Or perhaps he let himself be caught. Either way, the Soldier knew he wouldn't be slipping out from under Steve's watchful gaze anytime soon. He might be able to if he _really_ tried, but saw no point. Sooner or later, he would find his way back to Steve — it might as well be sooner.

Even so, the first night was awkward.

Steve was clearly afraid that the Soldier would disappear again and insisted on staying with him in his room while Steve's friend — Sam — took the one next door. It made the Soldier's skin crawl to have two people in such close proximity, but he bit back any complaints. Steve meant well and, in some ways, his presence was welcome. Who to better fill in the blank spaces in the Soldier's memory than someone who had lived through them with him?

Even so, the arrangement would definitely take a while to get used to.

By day two, Steve knew about the nightmares. And while the Soldier thought he had been handling things fairly well up until that point, Steve didn't seem to agree.

Then again, he was the one who had woken up to the Soldier's screaming and, when he tried to wake him, had gotten unceremoniously thrown across the room.

The Soldier felt bad about that, he could admit, but not so much that he wanted to talk to Steve about it. He never wanted anyone to know of all the horrible things he had done. He would rather suffer from nightmares his entire life than tell Steve of the murders he had committed.

Again, it was clear that Steve wanted to help, but the Soldier didn't think talking would make much of a difference.

He chose sullen silence instead.

It was on day three that Steve mentioned Tony.

Steve had tried, time and time again, to talk to the Soldier over the past couple of days, but the Soldier had continued to ignore him. Even after the nightmares, when the Soldier was shaking from panic and nausea, he refused to talk. And he would have continued to do so, had Steve not mentioned Tony.

The words weren't even meant for the Soldier. It was a quick comment to Sam, just as Steve got ready to leave the far-too-small room the three of them were currently squeezed into.

"I'm just gonna step outside and call Tony."

The Soldier's head snapped up. He was sitting on one of the beds, his newest notebook open in his lap. While he hadn't been able to hide their existence from Steve and Sam, he adamantly refused to show their content.

Tony?

When both Sam and Steve turned to look at him, the Soldier realized he must have spoken the name out loud. Steve looked surprised — they could all count the times the Soldier had spoken since that first conversation with Steve — but he caught himself quickly.

"Yeah, he's worried about you."

The Soldier stiffened. His metal arm whirred as his hand closed around the edge of his notebook, bending it almost irreparably out of shape. What was Steve doing? Did he think the Soldier hadn't found out that Tony was dead? Did he think saying something like that would _help_?

The anger boiling inside of the Soldier was rivaled only by his grief.

"Tony is dead," he bit out, words sharp.

Steve blinked, then, a second later, understanding dawned on his face, quickly followed by remorse. He sucked in a sharp breath and ran a hand through his hair.

"Shit. I can't believe I—"

He never finished the sentence.

"I'll let you guys talk," Sam announced, heading for the door without actually waiting for an answer.

Steve must have agreed, judging by his faint but grateful smile and how he stepped aside to let Sam through. Once the door had closed behind him, Steve turned to face the Soldier.

"What I'm going to tell you is going to sound ludicrous, but you just have to listen, okay?"

The Soldier grit his teeth and remained silent.

Steve clearly decided to take his silence as assent.

Steve was right — it _did_ sound ludicrous. But the Soldier couldn't deny he _wanted_ to believe it. He wanted to believe it so badly.

If Tony was alive — _his_ Tony — it wasn't too late after all. He could see him again. He could apologize for taking so long to return to him. He could hold him and kiss him and tell him that the months he had spent thinking Tony was dead were some of the worst of his life.

Despite everything that had happened, the Soldier would get a second chance to love him.

The hope and bliss lasted only a couple of minutes. That was how long it took before he was reminded of what he was now — of all the horrible things he had done. How was he supposed to look Tony in the eye, knowing he had killed _hundreds_ of people? How could he ever expect Tony to forgive something like that? How could Tony still love him after what he had done?

When Steve asked him if he wanted to talk to Tony, the Soldier said no. He couldn't. Even if he wanted nothing more than to hear Tony's voice — to confirm that his Tony truly was alive, despite the seventy years that had passed — he couldn't bring himself to do it.

He was a monster now — Tony deserved better than that.

Tony might not even recognize him. What if he had changed so much that Tony was incapable of loving him?

The Soldier couldn't let Tony see him like this. Even if it hurt, not seeing Tony again would be better than having to watch his face get twisted up by hate or disgust. It was better to stay away. The Soldier wasn't the same as he had once been — he still flinched every time Steve accidentally called him Bucky.

No matter how much he might want to, he couldn't see Tony.

Steve tried to convince him he was wrong — that Tony wanted nothing more than to talk to him. And while that might be true, Tony might change his mind as soon as they actually spoke — when he found out what kind of monster the man he once loved had turned into.

The Soldier couldn't risk it.

Steve then tried to convince him to at least come to the Avengers Tower, to stay with Steve on his private floor. The Soldier said no to that as well. He knew that was where Tony lived and being that close to him would be far too dangerous — far too tempting — even if Steve had his own floor.

The Soldier couldn't risk it.

He had to stay as far away from Tony as he could.

He was happy, though, to hear that Tony was alive. Even if he couldn't see him, knowing that Tony was still out there was more than enough.

Once again, Tony was like a radiant, untouchable star, far out of the Soldier's reach.

He half expected Steve to forcibly drag him to New York, but that didn't happen. Instead, Steve took them to a non-descript house in the suburbs in some random Midwestern town and told the Soldier to get comfortable. When Sam asked who owned the house, Steve said it had been one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s safehouses but, unsurprisingly, now stood empty and unused.

The Soldier wasn't entirely sure what Steve's intentions were, but he would be lying if he said he didn't appreciate their new accommodations. The house, though barely furnished, was much better than the cramped motels rooms and it sat on a quiet, picturesque street where the only real noise was passing cars, lawnmowers, and playing children.

The Soldier felt strangely a peace there and, as the weeks passed, he could feel some of the tension he always carried loosen. He still had his nightmares and those black holes in his memory, but he felt a little better.

He began to actually reply when Steve asked him questions. Not often and never in length, but, once he started, it became easier and easier to talk. He still kept the most gruesome details to himself and never discussed his actual memories, but they talked about his nightmares and what had happened in D.C.

Sam wasn't always with them at the house, but, the times he were, he also joined in. That had been incredibly awkward at first, but the Soldier soon found that Sam had even more valuable insights than Steve. Some of it sounded like bullshit, but he also offered methods on how to handle the nightmares and the moments when the memories became too overwhelming. The Soldier had to admit that helped a great deal.

Little by little, slowly but surely, he was beginning to feel better.

Steve never stopped trying to convince him to call Tony, no matter how many times the Soldier said no. He clearly disapproved of the Soldiers decision and, in true Steve fashion, wasn't quiet about it.

Steve even went as far as to turn on speakerphone during one of his semi-regular calls to Tony, while the Soldier was right there in the kitchen with him.

Hearing the sound of Tony's voice for the first time in seventy years — outside of the brief interviews he'd glimpsed on the news — left the Soldier reeling. Had he not been sitting down already, his knees would no doubt have buckled. His hands shook against the kitchen table while he stared helplessly at the phone in front of Steve.

Despite not wanting to call himself, he clung desperately to every word Tony said, to the point where he almost didn't manage to register the actual sentences. Tony didn't know the Soldier was listening and, for a brief second, he felt guilty about that. But he soon pushed that guilt onto its rightful owner — this was Steve's idea, not his.

Even after the call ended, the Soldier kept staring at Steve's phone, as if he hoped he would continue to hear Tony's voice through it.

"He misses you."

The Soldier closed his eyes and tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

"I can't."

"Of course you can, Bucky."

The name didn't grate as much as it once had — the Soldier had stopped correcting Steve when he used it.

"No. I'm... I'm not who he remembers," he said, his voice so low it almost broke. "I will never be him. I can't be."

Steve went silent, but it didn't take long before he spoke again.

"You're not the only one who's changed, you know. He's changed, too."

The Soldier knew that already. While he still tried to avoid interviews and reports about Tony — they felt like something forbidden, seeing as he refused to talk to or see him in person — he'd seen enough to catch a couple of differences. Tony looked older, of course, despite his slow aging, but there were more subtle changes as well. He was better at hiding his emotions now and had developed a public persona he used whenever the press annoyed him. The bright eagerness of his youth had been polished and refined over the years, into a sense of razor-sharp focus and dedication. He was still filthy rich, but now spent most of his money on projects and research that could help save the planet. On top of all of that, he was a fucking _superhero_.

So yes, Tony was different — but he was mostly _better_.

The Soldier wasn't.

"He misses you, Bucky," Steve tried again, tone soft and sincere.

It had the opposite effect.

"He's better off without me," the Soldier snapped before pushing himself to his feet and storming out of the kitchen, ignoring Steve's shouts for him to stop.

The Soldier lay staring up at the ceiling. The room was dark save for the narrow line of moonlight shining in through the gap in the curtains. At uneven intervals, he heard the by then familiar sounds of the house settling around him, plus the occasional snore from Sam two rooms away. Other than that, everything was quiet, the street deserted and neighboring families asleep.

Even if the Soldier often went to bed at the same time as the other two, he rarely fell asleep until several hours later. A part of that was the fear of nightmares, even if he didn't have them every night anymore — falling asleep held very little appeal when he might wake up screaming. But, mostly, it was because he liked the peace and quiet of just lying there, sorting through his thoughts and impressions. He hadn't had much time for that in the past couple of years.

HYDRA hadn't exactly been a fan of introspection.

Not that he always reached some kind of epiphany or conclusion, but it was nice to give himself time to think and work through his thoughts and memories.

That night, he was thinking about his name.

Months had passed since D.C — since he found out he had an actual name and a past life — but he still saw himself as the Soldier. He had expected to be more used to the name Bucky by then. He didn't flinch when Steve said it, but it felt awkward and ill-fitting. He wondered why that was. Perhaps it simply wasn't him anymore.

He supposed he could start going by James instead, which wouldn't be too bad. But that would, in many ways, feel like a defeat. Proof that HYDRA had managed to take yet another part of him, along with his arm, his memories, and seventy years of his life.

Maybe he should stop waiting for some kind of magical moment when 'Bucky' would feel like it fit again? There were no guarantees that it ever would, not on its own. Maybe he should just decide, then and there, that his name was Bucky again. The thought didn't fill him with the same dread and confusion as it once had.

He wouldn't be the same person as he had been — not the same Bucky — but he would be _a_ Bucky, and that was better than nothing, right? That was progress too.

Maybe it was time he became Bucky again?

The Soldier let out a slow breath and closed his eyes.

Yeah, that would be nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, Steve migt be the real MVP in this story, both from Bucky and Tony's POV. He's just trying his best to get his two friends back together, even if his methods sometimes leave a lot to be desired.
> 
> And we're almost done! The final chapter will be posted on Friday! See you then! :D


	5. Home

* * *

One morning, a little over six months after the events in D.C, Bucky woke to find Steve gone. Sam was at the kitchen table, having his usual coffee and hearty breakfast, and assured Bucky that Steve would be back soon. Still, it felt strange. Over the weeks they'd spent at the house — since Steve had found him again, even — Steve had _always_ been there. A part of that had been concern, no doubt, but also a fear that Bucky would leave as soon as Steve turned his back.

In some ways, Steve leaving might be a good thing — it showed he was beginning to trust Bucky not to go into hiding again — but Bucky also felt a sense of foreboding. Steve wouldn't leave unless it was incredibly important and, when Bucky asked, Sam said it wasn't Avengers business.

What could be so important it made Steve leave, even just for a couple of days?

Bucky wasn't sure if he wanted to find out.

When Steve came back two days later, Bucky was _sure_ something was up. Just hours after Steve's return, it was apparently Sam's turn to leave. In some ways, that wasn't suspicious — Sam wasn't there all the time — but the timing was a little too convenient. And the grave look he gave Steve before he walked out the door was rather telling.

Sam was giving them privacy.

Bucky responded by locking himself into his room. That was inarguably immature, but no matter what Steve was planning, Bucky didn't want to be a part of it. He suspected it had to do with Tony.

He was absolutely right.

As stubbornly as Bucky tried to avoid Steve, he could only go so long without food or going to the bathroom. Thankfully, Steve ambushed him in the kitchen rather than the bathroom — anything else would have been unnecessarily awkward for everyone involved.

It was way past midnight and Bucky thought Steve would be asleep at that hour. He was proven wrong when the kitchen he'd left dark was suddenly flooded with light, right in the middle of him making a sandwich. It was only with the tiniest of margins that Bucky was able to stop himself from whirling around and throwing the table knife he was holding at Steve. He didn't actually want to _hurt_ Steve, no matter how obnoxious he was being, but it was a reflex drilled into him after years with HYDRA.

Steve really had a death wish if he didn't think twice about sneaking up on HYDRA's most successful assassin.

"Are you done hiding?" Steve asked.

Bucky refused to turn around and face him.

"Would I be making a sandwich in a dark kitchen if I was?" Bucky grumbled back, trying to focus on his food. It was difficult, though, with the tension hanging in the air.

He could hear Steve sigh — a tired, disappointed sigh that made Bucky grind his teeth.

"We need to talk."

"No," Bucky replied flatly, "we don't."

He didn't _want_ to talk because he knew it would be about Tony. It almost always was, because that was the one thing he and Steve disagreed on. Steve never pushed when it came to anything else — the memories, nightmares, and Bucky's overall recovery — only Tony.

"He's _suffering_."

Bucky stiffened, but forced himself to continue with his sandwich. If his movements were suddenly a lot more jerky, he decided to ignore that.

"He's better off without me," he said, even if the words were beginning to sound hollow, even to his own ears.

"Is that really for you to decide?" Steve shot back, frustration clear in his voice. "I would be one thing if you didn't want him anymore, but that's not what you're saying. You're saying _he_ doesn't want _you_ and you don't know that. You can't _possibly_ know that because you refuse to talk to him."

Bucky clenched his teeth so hard they _hurt_ and had to pause his sandwich-making.

"If he's got _any_ sense, he would distance himself from me," Bucky ground out.

"Well, you're not exactly giving him much of a chance to make his own decisions, are you?"

Bucky whirled around to face Steve, his anger getting the better of him.

"Because I know he wouldn't leave me! He's too damn loyal!"

Steve didn't look the least bit intimidated, standing just inside the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. He looked _disapproving_ , if anything, which only made Bucky more angry. He didn't want Steve's judgment.

"Because he still loves you." Steve's words hit Bucky like a kick to the stomach. "He's lived through over seventy years, thinking you were dead, but he still loves you."

Bucky couldn't breathe. A part of him had feared that Tony wouldn't love him after living so many years without him — after _mourning_ him — but, at the same time, he knew Tony and how devoted he was. It shouldn't surprise him that Tony still loved him.

How Tony had survived seventy years of mourning when Bucky had barely managed three months, he had no idea.

"Have _you_ stopped loving _him_?" Steve asked.

The question _hurt_ , but Bucky supposed he couldn't blame Steve for asking. Bucky hadn't shown it all that much lately.

He shook his head, unable to actually form the words. He loved Tony so much he could barely stand the thought of how many years they had lost.

Steve sighed, his arms falling down to his sides. His hands remained tightly clenched, showing his frustration.

"This whole thing you're doing? Avoiding him and refusing to talk to him? You're just being selfish."

Bucky felt his hackles rise — he was trying to _protect_ Tony — but Steve didn't let him interrupt.

"You're making a decision for the both of you that you have no right to make. Again, had this been about you not being ready or not wanting to see him because you don't love him anymore, this would be a whole different story. But it _isn't_."

"You have _no_ idea what this is about!" Bucky snarled.

"Yes, I do. You're afraid," Steve replied, with a calm that was almost infuriating. There was compassion in his eyes, though. "You're afraid he'll reject you and I get that. But what you're really doing is telling him that you don't trust him."

That made Bucky stop short. Steve continued on, relentless.

"That you don't trust him to love you no matter what. That you don't trust him to overcome this." Steve took a step closer, but still remained out of touching distance. "And maybe that's because you don't trust _yourself_ — maybe you're not sure how to forgive _yourself_ — but, to Tony, it looks like it's him you don't trust."

Bucky's chest felt so tight he could barely breathe.

"No, that's not— I trust him," he croaked. "I do."

The only person he might trust more was Steve. Tony was one of the most dedicated, loving people Bucky had ever known and he had earned Bucky's trust ten times over.

"But how is he supposed to know that?"

There was no good answer to that. Tony couldn't _possibly_ know, because Bucky had refused to talk to him for over three months. Bucky swallowed, his stomach twisting with growing regret.

"I understand if you're afraid, Buck, but don't try to push the blame on him. Don't tell yourself he can never love you when you haven't even talked to him. Don't do that to him — or yourself."

Steve sighed and took another step closer. He held Bucky's gaze for a second, then raised his right hand, still clenched. When he opened it, palm up, Bucky had to suck in a sharp breath.

There, in his hand, lay a silver ring, simple and worn with little starbursts carved along its side. It was the ring from the exhibition — the one the Smithsonian had said belonged to Steve.

In that second, Bucky knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it didn't. It was _his_ ring.

"Do you remember this?" Steve asked, voice low.

Bucky couldn't even nod. He just stood there, staring down at the ring, his heart in his throat and lungs burning from lack of air.

He _did_ remember it.

"I found it among your things after you fell," Steve explained. "I took it because I realized what you planned to do with it. And I thought that, once the war was over, I should give to him — to remember you by." Steve paused, a moment of anguish passing between them. "That obviously didn't happen."

He had crashed into the Atlantic instead and, when his things were gathered, everyone had assumed the ring was his.

"I'm not showing you this to guilt you into talking to him." Steve's voice was low and full of pain — both his own and sympathy for Bucky. "I just want to remind you of what you were hoping to have with him — how much you trusted him, at least back then."

Steve carefully placed the ring on the counter next to them.

"I can't force you to change your mind, but I think you underestimate both him and yourself." He sounded so sincere — so wonderfully _Steve_ — that Bucky was filled with a wave of fondness, even amongst all the hurt and regret. "The two of you can get through this. I know you can, especially if you do it together."

Bucky closed his eyes, futilely hoping to stave off the burn of tears.

"It might be time to reconsider your decision," Steve said with finality.

And, with that, he walked out of the kitchen, leaving Bucky alone with his roaring emotions.

Even as they stepped out of the elevator, Bucky had his doubts. Steve had told him they were on the Avengers' communal floor, but that he'd asked the others to vacate it for the time being. That did very little to calm Bucky's nerves. After all, it wasn't the thought of the other Avengers that made him the most nervous, but rather the prospect of seeing Tony again. In person. For the first time in seventy years.

Steve had tried to call ahead, but Tony was, apparently, not answering. Bucky felt guilty about that, since it was no doubt his fault. His reluctance to talk must have made Tony unwilling to answer, even if Steve called with news about Bucky. Considering how many months Tony had been ignored, Bucky couldn't blame him.

Now they were there, however, in the same building as Tony. It would be difficult for him to avoid them.

Or maybe not.

"JARVIS, can you ask Tony to come to the common room, please?" Steve said, speaking to no one in particular.

Bucky gave him a look, wondering if he should be concerned. To his surprise, there was soon a reply, echoing out from some hidden speaker somewhere.

"Sir does not wish to be disturbed."

The voice was polite, crisp, and exceedingly British.

"Tell him it's important, please."

There was a brief pause before the next answer came.

"I will forward your request, Captain Rogers."

"Thank you, JARVIS." Steve smiled before throwing a quick glance in Bucky's direction. "He's an AI — Tony built him. You wouldn't believe all the things he's created over the years."

Honestly, Bucky could imagine. He'd always known Tony was destined to do great things, as cliché as that might sound. Ever since the first time Bucky saw him, all those years ago at the Stark Expo, he'd known Tony was going to bring them the future.

Not many seconds passed before the AI spoke again.

"I will connect you to the workshop," it said.

Steve barely had time to thank the AI before the call connected, Tony's voice filling the room.

"Hi, Steve. You should have warned me if you intended to visit. I'm elbows-deep in a very important project here."

Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek not to let out a sound of some kind. Even if Tony sounded tired and distracted, it was still _Tony_. Bucky was closer to him than he had been in _years_. If he spoke now, Tony would be able to hear him.

"I tried," Steve replied a little drily, "but JARVIS kept telling me you were unavailable."

"Because I _am_." There was a hint of annoyance in Tony's voice — maybe even insult. "I might be a horrible excuse for a human being, but I try not to lie to my friends too often."

Bucky knew he should say something, but the words just wouldn't come. His throat had constricted to the point where he could barely breathe. Steve threw him a glance, urging him to speak up but, when Bucky remained silent, Steve spoke in his stead.

"Look, Tony—"

"No, you look, Steven," Tony interrupted, words sharp enough to almost make Bucky flinch. "I'm staying out of the way, okay? Just like you told me. I'm sorry, but you can't have it both ways. I can't..."

The brief pause almost broke Bucky's heart. He could _hear_ the suffering in Tony's voice.

Bucky didn't struggle against the wave of guilt that hit him. He deserved it. _He_ had made Tony this desperate.

"Don't make this any harder for me than it already is," Tony continued, voice near trembling. "I know you take good care of him and if your reports are all I'll have, that's fine. I'm happy as long as he is. He doesn't have to talk to me or see me or..."

Tony trailed off and Bucky couldn't stand it. He took a breath, preparing to speak, no matter how tight his throat was or how much fear was currently twisting inside his chest. Tony didn't deserve this.

But Bucky had underestimated Tony, who continued without giving Bucky a chance to explain.

"It's okay if he doesn't want to see me," Tony said. He didn't sound okay — neither was Bucky. Tony thought he didn't want to see him? "I can deal with that. But please, Steve — don't rub it in my face like this. You're supposed to be better than that."

"Tony—"

Steve didn't get much further than Bucky had. Tony was _determined_ not to listen to what they had to say.

"Just tell him I love him, okay? That's all that matters." Tony sounded so frail in that moment — as if he was seconds from breaking. "Just tell him that."

Before either Steve or Bucky had time to say anything else, the call ended. Steve clenched his jaw, his stubbornness rearing his head. Bucky mostly felt numb.

"Call him again, JARVIS," Steve said.

"I'm afraid Sir has initiated the workshop lockdown. No further incoming calls will be permitted."

Bucky's heart sank. This was all his fault. He'd made Tony believe he didn't want to see him. Which was an understandable conclusion to reach, but so far from the truth. Bucky wanted nothing more than to see Tony, he just thought he didn't _deserve_ it.

He could barely swallow the guilt.

"Alright, back into the elevator, Buck," Steve said — practically ordered.

Bucky's head snapped up. He was surprised — and disappointed, to be honest — that Steve would give up that easily. Now that he was actually there, Bucky didn't want to leave before he had a chance to talk to Tony, no matter what that conversation might result in.

Steve must have seen the doubt on Bucky's face, since he smiled encouragingly when he started herding Bucky toward the elevator.

"I have an override code. If you punch it in once you reach the correct floor, JARVIS will have to open the doors for you, okay?"

Bucky blinked in surprise but nodded after a couple of beats, perhaps a little dumbly. Steve positioned him in the elevator and clapped him on the shoulder.

"You can do this," Steve said, voice full of conviction Bucky didn't share.

Not that Bucky was going to let that stop him.

He had come too far to turn back now.

The moment the doors slid open and revealed Tony's workshop, Bucky forced himself to move forward. He was afraid he wouldn't even dare to step out of the elevator if he gave himself time to start hesitating.

He barely made it five feet before Tony, standing in front of a workbench not far from the elevator, whirled around. He looked _furious_.

"Steve, I swear to God—"

Tony fell silent, his eyes widening in surprise when he realized who was actually standing in his workshop. Bucky's gaze automatically flicked across the room — a reflex from his training he still wasn't able to curb — marking the exits in his mind.

His focus soon returned to Tony, though.

"Bucky..."

The amount of longing in Tony's voice — as well as surprise and desperation — made something inside Bucky crack. They hadn't seen each other in _seventy years_ and, in that moment, Bucky was overwhelmed by both relief and gratefulness.

He couldn't believe he was actually _there_ , right in front of Tony. It shouldn't have been possible. They should both have been dead by then, but, somehow, they weren't. Somehow, they had managed to find each other again, despite the odds.

"Tony," Bucky replied, not sure what else to say.

He had come with a speech ready — or at least a script to follow — but all of that disappeared the moment he saw Tony again. He hadn't been prepared for how it would _feel_. That just _seeing_ him would take Bucky's breath away.

Tony looked older now, but he still had the same presence and grace that Bucky remembered — the same brilliance Bucky had admired back at the Expo. The clothes were different, though. Back during the war, Tony had worn fancy suits and pressed shirts, but here he was in a simple long-sleeved t-shirt and tattered jeans with more grease stains than Bucky bothered to count. Unsurprisingly, he still managed to look good.

Just like Bucky, Tony had changed over the years — both inside and out — but he was still beautiful beyond compare.

He looked tired, however, with dark circles under his eyes and messy hair, as if he'd run his hands through it countless times. Bucky couldn't help but wonder if that was his fault, too. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, trying to stave off the urge to reach out and offer comfort. They weren't ready for that yet. Things were still too awkward between them.

"I... thought you were Steve. I mean... I didn't know you were here," Tony said haltingly. He remained by his workbench, even if it looked like he was dying to run across the workshop and throw himself into Bucky's arms. The amount of longing in his eyes hurt to look at.

"Yeah, I could tell." Bucky glanced down at the floor, trying to swallow around the tightness in his throat. "We tried to tell you. I said we shouldn't barge in but Steve..."

Bucky shrugged, not sure how to continue that sentence without insulting his best friend. He still wasn't able to look up, desperately afraid of what he would see in Tony's eyes.

"No, no, it's okay. You—" Tony cleared his throat. "You're always welcome."

Those words, said with such certainty — as if anything else would have been unthinkable — twisted the knot of guilt that had taken up residence inside Bucky's chest. Even after everything Bucky had put Tony through, he still welcomed him with open arms. He might not think Bucky _wanted_ to be there, but he still offered.

Bucky knew that was something they had to address, sooner rather than later.

"You thought I didn't want to see you?" he asked carefully, looking up at Tony. He almost succumbed to the urge to step closer, wanting so badly to pull Tony to him and hold him close — offer the comfort and support he deserved.

Tony blinked, something like panic flickering past on his face.

"It's okay," Tony said hurriedly — _apologetically_. "You needed time — I understand that. And you obviously needed to be with someone you trusted so it was better if I kept out of the way. I just want you to feel better."

There was no way Bucky could have prepared himself for how much those words would hurt. Steve had warned him, but hearing them from Tony — spoken so easily, as if they made complete sense — just about broke him.

Tony thought Bucky didn't trust him anymore.

When Tony saw the look on Bucky's face, his hands shot up, as if he'd done something wrong and needed to calm Bucky down.

"I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry."

This just kept getting worse. Tony shouldn't have to apologize. _Bucky_ was the one who had done wrong. He wasn't sure how to make Tony believe that, though — Tony had always had the tendency to take on too much blame and responsibility.

But Bucky supposed he could start by explaining why he had been so reluctant to see him.

"I thought you died." Bucky could barely get the words out. Even if he knew the truth now, he hadn't forgotten the pain and grief. "For over three months, I thought you were dead."

The silence was deafening.

"What?" Tony sounded terribly confused. " _Me_? Why would—"

"They said you died."

Tony blinked.

"Who did?" he asked, taking a tentative step closer.

Bucky had to unclench his jaw to be able to speak.

"At the museum. I went there because I remembered Steve and... there was a part about me." He let out a trembling breath. "And one about you. I didn't even know who you were then, but when I read that you died I just... I couldn't breathe."

Understanding finally dawned on Tonys' face. He must know what had been written about him at the Smithsonian.

"When Steve found me, it still took three days before he could explain that you were alive." That had been Bucky's own fault. If he had only been more susceptible, Steve might have told him sooner — he could have spared himself a lot of agony. "I didn't believe him at first. It sounded ludicrous."

"I don't blame you. It _is_ ludicrous."

Bucky couldn't help but smile at that, however weakly.

He soon took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders.

"I thought you were dead those first three months." He took a step closer, admittedly a little hesitant. He wasn't sure what would happen if he got close enough to touch Tony. He might just break apart. "When I found out you weren't, my first instinct was to find you."

"Why didn't you?"

Bucky didn't blame Tony for sounding disappointed — he had every right.

"I got scared," Bucky replied, voice trembling. He didn't want to talk about this, but he knew he had to — he had to make Tony understand that he wasn't at fault and Bucky _did_ trust him. "Because... of what I've become. I was afraid that you wouldn't recognize me. Or hate me. Or that you would take one look at me and just—"

"Bucky, no." Tony crossed the distance between them and, without hesitation, reached up and framed Bucky's face with his hands. Conviction shone in his eyes, his voice soft but determined. "I could never hate you. What HYDRA did to you wasn't your fault."

Bucky's breath hitched, Tony's touch sending a wildfire of sensation through him. He closed his eyes and angled his head, pushing into Tony's hand, not caring how desperate that might make him look. His heartbeats were loud in his ears and the entire world seemed to narrow down to the point of contact between him and Tony. When Bucky's lips brushed against the heel of Tony's palm, Bucky had to bite back a whine, but he wasn't sure if he'd been entirely successful.

He wanted so badly to touch Tony in turn, but hesitated as soon as he'd pulled his hands out of the pocket of his hoodie. If he touched Tony now, Bucky might never let go.

"I missed you, Bucky. I've missed you _so_ much." Tony's voice wobbled and Bucky barely dared to breathe when Tony's arms slid around his neck and pulled him close. "I can't believe you're here."

For a split second, Bucky didn't know what to do. He was overwhelmed by Tony's scent, his warmth, and the beats of his heart, so close to Bucky's own. But that moment soon passed and, once it had, Bucky allowed himself to let go. Tony would keep him from shattering entirely.

Bucky let out a choked sob and wrapped his arms around Tony's waist. He could barely handle all the emotions roaring through him — hope, grief, gratitude, regret — and chose instead to simply cling to Tony. After that first sob, more followed and, for once, Bucky didn't try to hold back. He allowed himself to cry.

One of Tony's hands sank into Bucky's hair, his cheek pressed against the side of Bucky's head. He didn't seem to mind that he was being hugged so tightly it had to hurt.

"You smell the same," Tony whispered, reverent and delighted.

Bucky could only press closer in reply.

"It's okay," Tony continued, his nose nudging Bucky's ear. "You're home now. You're safe."

Bucky sucked in a desperate breath before nodding, still not letting go of Tony.

It had taken him over seventy years and an excruciating amount of suffering, but he was home.

He was finally home.

"You came back," Tony said, a hint of a giddy laugh in his voice. "That's all that matters. You came back, Bucky."

Tony let out a trembling breath, his voice softening into a breathless whisper.

"You're home."

It took some time for Bucky to calm down after that, but he eventually managed. Being allowed to lie enveloped in Tony's embrace certainly helped. While both Steve and Sam had been incredibly supportive over the past three months, it couldn't quite compare to the safety Bucky felt while with Tony. For the first time in seventy years, he felt truly at peace.

There was still a long way to go, of course — a lot of things they had to talk about and resolve — but, in that moment, lying on the couch in Tony's workshop, the two of them speaking in soft, hushed tones, Bucky relaxed. He had missed talking to Tony. It brought back memories of the war and the hours they had spent hidden away in Tony's apartment, wrapped up in each other and their quiet, heartfelt conversations.

It turned out that Tony still wore the dog tags.

Upon hearing that, Bucky's thoughts were immediately drawn to the ring, safely tucked away in his backpack, together with his notebooks and journals. The dog tags had only been a temporary solution — a substitute for what he actually wanted to give — but things might have turned out better this way. Tony said the dog tags had saved his life and, unlike back during the 40's, if Bucky gave Tony the ring now, it would actually _mean_ something in the eyes of society. Things like that were legal now, Steve had told him.

Maybe _now_ was the time to give Tony the ring?

Bucky wasn't sure if he dared to do that, at least not yet, but he definitely wanted to.

He just had to find the courage.

When the time was right, he told himself. He'd give Tony the ring when the time was right.

When exactly that would be, he didn't know, but it would come eventually. He had no doubts about that.

Tony deserved to know just how much Bucky loved him and that he wanted nothing more than to spent the rest of his life — however long that might be — together with him. They had been given a second chance and Bucky would be a fool not to embrace it.

He would give Tony the ring.

"What are you doing up here?"

Bucky looked over his shoulder, smiling as Tony came sauntering over to him where he stood near the edge of the roof of the Avengers Tower. The sky was dark above them, but the light pollution made sure no stars could be seen — none in the sky, at least.

Tony stopped next to Bucky and looked out over New York, bright and pulsing with life, even at this late hour.

"Thinking," Bucky replied, hands in his pockets.

"About what?" Tony asked, incurably curious, as always.

Bucky hesitated, not sure if he should give the honest answer.

He'd been living at the Avengers Tower for six months by then — a year had passed since HYDRA's fall in D.C — and he had made immense progress. He still had nightmares from time to time and all of his memories had yet to return, but he was doing much better. He'd made friends with some of the Avengers and, slowly but surely, tried to reenter society as an actual citizen rather than the ghost he had lived as the past couple of years.

Trying to keep Bucky out of prison had required a whole team of lawyers, but both Steve and Tony had been adamant that Bucky shouldn't be held responsible for what he had done under HYDRA's control. Some days, the weight of the guilt was heavy enough that Bucky couldn't quite agree with them, but he kept that to himself.

Overall, he was making progress, both in terms of building a future and working through and processing the horrors of his past. But, as far as he had come, there was still _one_ thing he had yet to do.

He hadn't given Tony the ring.

Not because there hadn't been moments when he could have or because he didn't want to — quite the opposite. If Bucky had had less self-control, he would probably have given it to Tony months ago, simply because he was so eager. The thought of being able to love Tony without having to hide was so freeing it was dizzying. They could get married and wear rings just like any other couple. Bucky wanted nothing more than to have that.

But he also wanted the moment when he gave Tony the ring to be perfect. Bucky wanted to show Tony just how much he loved him and how much he treasured the new future they had been given.

He wanted to give him everything.

The problem was that Bucky had no idea what a perfect moment might look like. He didn't want to make too big of a deal out of it, but, at the same time, didn't want it to feel rushed or unplanned. He had taken to carrying the ring with him on an almost daily basis — it was in his pocket right at that very moment — just in case that perfect moment arrived.

And that was what he had been thinking about when Tony arrived. Bucky had begun to wonder if, maybe, that moment would never come. Just like with his name, he was trying too hard and, as a result, was wasting precious time. Even _Steve_ had managed to find love and more or less seal the deal before Bucky did.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to tell Tony about all of that, though. Bucky decided to compromise.

"The future," he replied.

Tony was apparently feeling cheeky, considering how he leaned closer, gently bumping into Bucky.

"Oh, you mean me?"

Bucky was never going to live that down. Telling Tony he was Bucky's future might be very romantic, but also a great fodder for teasing, it turned out.

He couldn't help smiling, though, as he turned to face Tony.

"Yes, I was thinking about you."

Tony looked a little surprised that Bucky admitted it that openly, but soon grinned.

"Anything in particular?" he asked, clearly fishing for compliments — or attention, at the very least. As cavalier as Tony sometimes seemed, especially when it concerned his own popularity and fame, he _did_ like attention. Even more so when Bucky was the one giving it.

There were a hundred different answers to that question, but, as Bucky stood there with Tony smiling up at him, he realized there was only one he wanted to give. It was far from the perfect moment he had been chasing, but it would get the job done.

He was done wasting time.

"Marry me."

Tony went completely still, his eyes widening. Thankfully, Bucky knew him well enough to see it was shock rather than a rejection. The question _was_ awfully sudden.

Bucky swallowed and pulled the ring out of his pocket. He couldn't hear much over the roaring in his ears, his breaths coming in fast and shallow.

It was strange that he could feel so nervous over something he was so sure about.

"I know that—"

Bucky cut himself off when he realized his mistake. Proposals were supposed to be done on one knee, weren't they? He couldn't believe he'd messed that up.

The second he started bending down, Tony grabbed both of his arms to stop him.

"There's really no need for that," Tony said. His eyes were still wide and his voice hoarse, but there was no mistaking his certainty. "The answer is yes."

The rush of joy was overwhelming. In all honesty, Bucky had never even considered the possibility that Tony might say no — there were no doubts about how much they loved each other — but the relief of hearing him say yes still sent Bucky reeling.

Tony placed his hand over Bucky's, the ring nestled in between their palms.

"I'd love to marry you, Bucky."

The only response Bucky was able to give was a half-choked noise of happiness. Tony let out a giddy laugh while his arms slid around Bucky's waist. He leaned in close, until their bodies were pressed tight together, his face tucked in against Bucky's neck. Bucky closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Tony in turn, his fingers tightly clenched around the ring still in his hand. He was supposed to put it on Tony's finger, he knew, but that could wait, at least for a couple of minutes.

Another laugh bubbled out of Tony, his entire being seemingly thrumming with excitement. Bucky hugged him tighter.

"I admit I didn't expect a proposal when I came up here," Tony said. There was nothing but joy in his voice — breathless, unfiltered joy. "But, like they say — you only live twice."

That wasn't _quite_ how the saying went, but, considering the second chance they'd been given, it was definitely fitting for the two of them.

Bucky let out a slow breath, his heart soaring.

"Twice is enough," he replied.

They would make sure of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are done! Yes, the ring was A Thing, much like the dog tags in the fic from Tony's POV. The ring was honestly one of the reasons why I really wanted to get this fic written, because I knew that everyone only kept getting half of the story (seeing as Tony had no idea about it until this very final scene). So yeah. I hope you all enjoyed that!
> 
> And, as I mentioned at the start, there are some scenes and details I didn't go into in this fic, yes, partly because of lack of time but mostly because of pacing. This focuses more on Bucky than the overall plot, which might be why it's better to read Tony's POV first. There are some references that you'll only understand if you read them in that order.
> 
> Anyhow! Thanks to you all for reading! Here is my [Tumblr](http://amethystinawrites.tumblr.com/) and I'll see you all some other time! Take care, my lovelies <3


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